


Reaching out for first contact

by Narina (Dasjania)



Series: Dirt and steel saga [1]
Category: Mass Effect, Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Betrayal, Dubious Morality, Eventual Shepard/Garrus Vakarian, F/M, First Contact War, Gen, Loss, Mass Effect - Freeform, Multi, Murder, No Shepard without Vakarian, Partner Betrayal, Pining, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Sole Survivor (Mass Effect)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2018-08-14 16:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 25
Words: 122,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8021863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dasjania/pseuds/Narina
Summary: AU: Shepard is the sole survivor of her crew and the first human to make contact with an alien race. Garrus Vakarian is a C-sec instructor who finds himself in a mire of political intrigue, death and destruction as the turians consider what to do with the newly discovered human race. And he's not the only one interested in the human's life or death.At the break of dawn, the Shanxi wars will begin...who will survive?Updates bi-weekly, on Saturdays and Wednesdays.





	1. Army fatigue

“So you were part of the Shanxi war?” The krogan eyed the fragile human woman with a mixture of curiosity and distrust. 

“You’ve been to Afterlife again, haven’t you? What did I tell you about that place?” 

In the dim light of the hangar, the alarm’s crimson glare lit up her hair and made it seem like flames were licking her scarred face. She concealed a wince with the flurry of her hand shoving a heat sink into the shotgun. 

“Coming on, you’re always on my case about that place, but I’m big enough to know better. You know, they say worse things about you than you could ever say about them. Patriarch said...” 

She holstered her shotgun, a familiar weight settling into her lower back as the eezo-powered clamps latched onto it. The worst was over now, she could rely on just her pistol. When she stood up, she was almost a head shorter and a hundred years younger than Gam. 

“It’s ‘come on’, kiddo. You haven’t been practicing your English, either. And you go listening to Patriarch’s tall fibs.” 

Gam lumbered over to her, his finger still on the trigger as he scanned the premises. 

“You’re doing that thing I don’t like, the motherment thing.” much to his displeasure, his voice ended on a squeaky note, much higher than an adult krogan’s should. That put a damper on his whole intimidation act. 

A dead vorcha lay splayed on top of an air conditioning console, his face fused to the sizzling panel. Between them and the exit were enough crates of red sand to buy Illium whole, each one a potential hiding spot for an engineer’s turret or a hidden mech. She ignored the drugs, they were much harder to move than information and bodies. 

His teeth chattered. It was cold enough inside to keep red sand from overbaking and losing its potency. The textured metal walls rose high, thick with insulation to conceal the ungodly noise mass effect drives made on lift-off. Considering there was no central authority on Omega, save for Aria T’Loak, the walls were not made to any real code. Gam thought he heard the rap of a rifle on the other side. He grumbled and turned to give her the all clear signal. 

“Gam, on your left!” she stepped between him and an attack drone, taking the full brunt of the explosion on her shield. The room collapsed in on itself and became a pinprick of precision surrounded by a river of gray and white waves as she swam through the air. Her lungs gasped for air when she hit the concrete floor. 

“Tala! I said the room was CLEAR! Don’t make me a LIAR!” he screamed and bulled his way to the engineer’s cover, demolishing everything in his path. Crates flew through the air as if they were flimsy cardboard boxes, some spilling their insides as they smashed into walls and other cargo. Red sand formed diffuse clouds, bursting out of its prison and spreading, covering the room in a red film.

She lifted herself on her knees, scrambling for her shotgun and screaming for Gam to take cover. It was no use, not when the bloodrage boiled through him, cursing through his veins and clouding his judgement. He vaulted over another workbench, grabbing and smashing one Eclipse merc’s visor, driving the shards deep into his eyes. Satisfied with his handy work, he caught the engineer between two crates. Bullets chipped off his shield, lodging themselves in his armor or thick hide. He didn’t seem to notice. Tala couldn’t decide which was worse, the man’s screams of agony or the other woman’s head popping like an overripe melon. 

The last Eclipse merc threw her rifle down when she ran out of heat sinks and attempted to escape through the emergency door. Tala shot her in the back, downing her shields in one shot and curbing her retreat with another other. 

“You weren’t a liar, Gam, but don’t let this happen again. We could’ve been the ones dead this time.” she turned to him, almost cooing to the krogan, petting him on the only exposed part of his neck.

“I hate it when you’re right. Are you hurt?” he panted, reason slowly seeping back into his bewildered eyes. 

“You kidding me? I take rockets to the face for breakfast!” 

“You humans are weird. And squishy.”

“I was. Not anymore.” 

“Huh?” 

“Part of the Shanxi wars.” 

They walked side-by-side and into the putrid Omega slum. Out here, on the other side of the warehouse, the light was a sickly yellow, licking the corners of dilapidated ghetto apartment blocs, with their caved-in entrances and broken light fixtures. Apartments didn’t have windows, and if they did, they would most likely be smashed in or walled up. What is the purpose of a view if the only thing you see is more grime and filth? They kept walking, each street and back alley bringing them closer to home. Amorphous apartment bloc entrances began to make way for shop fronts, garrish and just as derelict as the shopkeeps themselves, afire in clashing neon colors. Merchants, mercenaries, mobsters and mere mortals sold, traded, bartered and stole goods, going about their day with nary a look to the beggars on their knees or the rotting corpses gutting the sewers. Crematoriums are expensive on Omega, more than letting the garbagemen jettison bodies into orbit. Gam hoped they did airlock the bodies, but with the increasing numbers of vorcha in the garbagemen units, he began doubting it. For some reason, everyone gave a wide berth to him and Tala. Their armor was no more bloodspattered than others’, but it was something about the tiny human that made other people skittish. He wanted to think his lumbering presence helped, but he was not yet bigger than the krogan mercs gathering in Afterlife. 

Gam chewed on her words for a while, tasting different answers and questions in the back of his mind. Thinking so hard made him want to punch things, but Tala frowned on that. She walked a half step ahead, giving Gam a potent view of the arsenal strapped to her back. If he wanted to, he could end her life with a simple nudge in the right direction, the equivalent of the force he would use to pet his varren. He shook those thoughts away violently. He was in her krantt of his own free will.

“How many turians did you kill?” he said after a long while. Tala shot back a look that could rot the teeth off a batarian and burst out laughing.

“Keep on asking the important questions, Gam.” she choked and coughed, steadying herself on a precariously insulated heating pipe as she unlocked the compound door. “Come on, let’s clean up and I’ll tell you a story if you want.” 

“Will there be bloodshed and bashed-in heads?” 

“I’m mildly disturbed by how good your vocabulary is when violence is involved.” she shoved him in the direction of the lockers, helping him with the intricately fastened clasps at the back of his armour. “How you krogans can put your armour on over this hump is a mistery to me.” 

“Eh, I just like you helping out. I can do it myself if I wanted to. But then there’s no one to scratch my hump, hee-hee-hee.” he gurgled and Tala forgot for a moment that he was a half-ton killing machine. He was still a kid, barely an adolescent by krogan standards. 

Slavoj and Zerkin came onto the intercom, welcoming them back to the compound with a spray of disinfectant. Artificial daylight was creeping in through the airways, a grisly reminder of the daily trudge through Omega. She turned the radio on as she walked towards the showers, fully prepared to ignore the news. The low, hoarse male voice blathered on, rising above the old machine’s static, diffuse like a plume of smoke. 

_New witness reports are surfacing on the exonet about commander Shepard sightings in different galaxy clusters. While the Systems Alliance dismisses them as fabrications from hopeful fans, it could be the latest move in the human alliance’s ploy to drive up recruitment numbers._

Tala swallowed hard and turned the radio off. 

***

_The soldier looked on in horror as a pair of alien eyes stared at him from behind a visor. They were keen, reptilian, and attached to a monster about 7 feet high. In fact, the last thing he saw was the creature moving its mandibles and leveling the gun at him. Sadly, the cause of death was actually a heart attack._

All humans and turians probably know this story, but, for a lot of species, the First Contact War, or the Relay 314 Incident, is largely chalked up to both species being a bit too overzealous in using big guns to do the talking. The fact is, no matter how much some would say that the story is proof that humans don’t have a quad, if your entire belief system would turn topsy-turvy in a matter of minutes and you'd find the impossible pulling a gun at you, you'd be having a hard time controlling your heart beats, too. On the other end of the scale, the appearance of humans in galactic space was no more a novelty to most other species than the weekly news of eezo prices rising, regardless of how the history books spin it. 

There are many truths in this world, Gam, and none are more important than the ones you don’t want to admit to yourself.

The first truth was that she woke up in pain, sprawled on the ceiling of the escape pod, feeling like each breath was a sisyphean attempt. It was a miracle that she was still alive after debris from the ship’s explosion had damaged the pod’s aeroshell. The ship’s motherboard was reduced to a flurry of sparks and fizzling noises, all of its elegant haptic projections flickering. Two of the chairs lay crumpled inwardly like cheap movie set props, made all the more ghastly by their occupants twisted limbs and vacant expressions.

The second truth is that she would relive this moment in her nightmares for the rest of her life, but, for now, she gently pushed Jaroslav’s contorted body away from her and tried to stand up. Her aching flesh screamed for attention, needles scraping at her insides as the small nanobots in her bloodstream surged through her body, assessing and repairing whatever damages they found. She overcame the urge to fall back down long enough to lean on a wall. Her EVA armour was still intact, the computer ticking away her vitals on the visor’s screen.

“Shepard?” the voice was accompanied by soft pressure on her shoulder that caused jolts of agony. She turned around to look at the other man, her eyes searching for the face beneath the helmet.

“Moore, is that you? I can’t see straight.” 

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m so glad to see you in one piece, I thought I was the only one.”

It hurt to look up at the tall, barrel-chested man, but the cabin suddenly felt less like a tomb as the suit computer acknowledged his presence and began projecting his vitals on her helmet plate’s grid. 

Jonathan Moore, scanning…  
Vitals: Steady (HB 95; BP 115/75 mm Hg)  
Injuries: Minor  
WARNING! Stress levels high!  
WARNING! Fatigue level high! 

“Are you alright?” she said, instinctively reaching out to touch him as if to ensure that he was not a ghost.

“Twisted some muscles, probably a few upset ribs, nothing major. You?”

“I’m standing, that should be enough for now.” she tried to sound reassuring, but knew it was a useless gesture. Her visor blared like a banshee, neon colors flashing further stress and fatigue diagnostics on the both of them. She silenced them with a flick of her wrist computer's control, pushing them to the back of her mind.

There were no other life signs in the cramped pod, most of the safety harnesses hanging open uselessly. Smith was still in the seat, but the belt had provided her little benefit as it wrapped around her neck.

“Moore, we should…”

“Yeah, not more we can do here, LT. ‘Sides, we don’t know if they tracked us.” his words felt like they’d been dragged through gravel before emerging and registering in her brain. 

She raised her hand to point at the weapon locker, the authority of the gesture silencing her grief for a moment. Moore complied instantly. He flung her weapons towards her, then started pounding on the door, to the locking system’s aggravated insistences that they “please stand by to connect to port authority”.  
“Broken, the damn thing’s broken!” he muttered under his breath and moved past Shepard, closer to the control panel. 

Shepard swung toward the lateral escape hatch and began kicking it. The door gave inch by inch, until their ears were assaulted with the wails of sudden depressurization. As if on cue, both of their hands shot to check their oxygen tanks. The unexpected burst of light blinded them for a couple of seconds, until their visor adjusted its tint automatically. 

“Switch your comm to the secure channel and disengage the oxygen tank. It’s breathable.” she broke the silence, tapping the command on her wrist computer without glancing at it.

“Wait! Let me take point on this. If I go down, you might still have a chance to complete the mission.” 

She nodded and Moore jumped out of the escape pod. He let out a surprised whimper as he drifted towards the ground, landing on his ass with a soft thud on the ground. It was a rookie mistake to not compensate for the planet’s gravity. Shepard let it slide. As she came down from the slight drift, the earth felt soft beneath her boots, a luxurious sensation she hadn't felt very often throughout her life.

Their landscaping attempt was, regretfully, a complete failure. There was a muddy trail left in the wake of the escape pod, bordered by broken coniferous trees on all sides. The broken branches and various debris didn’t take away from the beauty of the scene: dwarf shrubs surrounded the small clearing, converging together in a wild hedge that stood guard against the immense fir-like trees. Their branches intertwined to form a blue tinged canopy that scarcely let the light filter through. A lacework of what appeared to be moss - or perhaps a parasitic species - cast its tendrils close to the ground, transforming the entire forest into a ghost wood, muffling even the sounds of birds and, most worryingly, of other animals. The terrain was treacherous, thick roots hiding behind a carpet of green-brown needles and rocks jutting upwards in a contest to collect their rightful space on the forest floor.

The trees seemed to be the only witnesses of their arrival. It would have been idyllic, Shepard thought, if not for the heat. It was nothing short of punishing. Droplets of sweat were already forming on both their brows, in spite of their suits' attempt to compensate. Even the ship's exterior shell was burnt to a crisp, the metal cracking as it cooled down. 

Shepard looked back inside the pod and shielded her eyes against the terrifying moment when Jaroslav unclasped his safety harness and yelled at her to be still while he pressed his body against hers, squeezing her in a none-too-gentle embrace. Not right now, not right now. She clutched her pistol as if it were the only buoyant device in a stormy ocean, her knuckles turning the color of ash beneath her suit’s glove. 

Moore seemed lost in his own private hell as he took a deep breath, his fingers clenched in the hold signal. Slowly, tentatively, he began circling the escape pod. He hadn’t been out of her view for long when Shepard heard a metallic sound, followed by muffled noise coming from behind the pod. Hoarse voices sputtered, clicked and hissed outside of her view, brought by the soft wind that buffeted the pod. 

Before she could swerve to take cover behind a sturdier looking rock a blue fog engulfed her, violently yanking her off the ground. The sudden feeling of weightlessness was strangely comforting, so unlike the numbness of zero G, as if time itself had stopped. She reached for the weapon as it drifted from her open palm, throwing herself off balance, but the sense of urgency drifted away imperceptibly. The dizziness steadied when she opened her eyes again to find that she was now staring at the small mound of dirt and rich forest floor rot the escape pod had greedily gathered in its haphazard touchdown. A second later, it was she who made an inelegant landing, shielding her head with her hands as she fell face-forward on the soft earth, rattling the pinecones. 

Two strong arms gripped her hands brusquely and twisted them to meet behind her back, renewing the complaints from her harried muscles. The feeling was all wrong, sharp claws digging into the softer fabric of the suit's wrists, three fingers increasing the pressure as she struggled and was hoisted up none too gently. The world was suddenly made of pins and knives competing for purchase of her limbs and she gave in to the dire need to slip into the comfort of darkness.

***  
Earlier  
Bellator sat leaning leisurely on the compound’s inner wall, hidden between the service trucks. He was inspecting his two-toed mag boots for wear and tear with the professionalism of a fisherman scrutinizing another's prize catch. Satisfied with the left, he took off the right and began looking at the overlay, checking each clip individually first, before he moved on to the sole and started cleaning them. 

It had been a long time since he had felt the anxiety of having his feet unshod for the harsh winters of his home planet, or had felt hunger clawing at his gizzard. So much has changed and yet some things never change, he thought part ruefully and part hopefully, glancing at Vakarian as his silhouette transitioned from a mote on the horizon to a silhouette and finally to a fully-grown ugly thorn in his side. His armor sparkled in the intense sunlight of Ostia, the metal alloy of his shoulderpads throwing dazzling glints into Bell’s hyper-sensitive eyes. The young turian was, as usual, stopped by his students on his road to Bellator’s position, dodging them expertly with a smile and some sweet flutterings as he made his way on the training grounds, going right past the trucks and making a beeline for his little ensconcement. 

“Can’t a guy have a moment of peace?” he growled to the newcomer, who merely clapped his shoulder and slumped on the wall until he was at his level, stretching his legs and hooking one of his ankle spurs around Bellator’s own.

“Bell, you know how much I miss your beautiful face when you’re not around.” Vakarian’s low voice rumbled in dual tone, slipping a smile to soothe the sting of the barb. As the newcomer unhooked his helmet, Bell got a good look at the freshly retouched blue Vakarian markings that adorned Garrus’ face. Some people were born with too much. 

“Last time I checked, I haven’t sprouted boobs and started calling myself Liluva.” he returned with a snort, but did not untangle his leg from the hold. 

“Hmm, tempting. Remember when we were little and you dressed up in my mom’s clothes? You were quite dashing - hell, I might’ve bonded to you right then and there if my dad hadn’t stopped our starstruck romance.” Garrus chuckled weakly and let his shoulders sag, unholstering his assault rifle from its back slot and setting it to rest on the ground. 

“Hard day today?” Bell turned to his friend and grabbed his forearm, noticing for the first time how sunken and hollow his eyes were. 

“My investigation into that bastard hanar slaver was cut off. Suddenly classified, they say. I say they can go shove a krogan’s fist down their cloacas. I know that jelly was luring fresh immigrants with promises of jobs and then farming them out into the Terminus systems. And on the Citadel, too!” he snarled, oblivious to Bell’s expression changing from worried to downright miserable. So much for a quiet day in the sun.

“The Citadel makes people go soft. Good thing they have the illustrious Patrol Officer Garrus Vakarian to help their poor, their innocent and their little hearts.” Bell added wistfully, hoping to get a rise out of his friend. Anything would be better than abject defeat. 

Garrus picked up his rifle and used it as support to get up on his feet. He turned to Bellator and lightly kicked his exposed feet, motioning for him to put on his boots. 

“C’mon, your little lady needs some cleaning and you promised me you’d speak to Tirnovian for some actual food this time around.” 

Bell looked at his rifle and realised, with disgust, that Vakarian was right. Lady was positively filthy with dirt and grime caked into the lubricants. Spirits, but it had felt so good to just lay in the god damned shade and look up at the…

“Gar, what the fuck is that?” he jumped up, a cloud of dust billowing around him, much to Garrus’ displeasure. The joke was too old, but he nonetheless turned around to glower at where Bellator was pointing. 

“Spirits, it’s an escape pod! Something must be wrong with it, it’s burning up too fast on re-entry.” 

He was suddenly silenced by the sound of a crash, followed by a small quake. 

PATROL OFFICER VAKARIAN AND LIEUTENANT SILVA ARE CALLED TO EXIT POINT D6. THIS IS NOT AN EXERCISE. ALL PERSONNEL MUST RETURN TO THEIR STATIONS IMMEDIATELY AND AWAIT NEW ORDERS. REPEAT, PATROL OFFICER VAKARIAN AND LIEUTENANT SILVA ARE CALLED TO EXIT POINT D6. THIS IS NOT AN EXERCISE. 

Their omnitools pinged simultaneously with mission details, as overhead the speakers blared. Bellator fell back on his ass with lightning speed to clip on his left boot, while Garrus was busy scrambling with the right. The courtyard was quickly emptying, crowds of raw recruits smashing into eachother alongside the more experienced instructors and administrative staff, who rustled, cajoled and yelled them to an orderly retreat. 

“Ouch, watch it, asshole. Spurs don’t grow back.” 

“Don’t tell me I’m turning you on, sweetie, we have work to do.” he quipped, a glib note finding its way into his terse tone of earlier. 

As they both worked on making Bellator presentable, a short turian in full armor exited from the service building next to the wall, panting as she reached them. Her armor had the usual appearance of having been slapped on in haste, a gauntlet hanging by a mere clasp. Garrus shot to attention first as she hurriedly smashed the other two clasps, followed immediately by Bellator.

“Not the time for cuddling, boys, we have work to do. Unidentified escape pod crashlanded in the forrest a leuga from here. We’re the welcoming party. Command says it might be a group of the criminals activating dormant mass relays.” her normally flanged voice was almost mono-tone in her haste. She dashed into a mad sprint and almost barrelled into the driver’s seat of the light armored vehicle two hundred meters ahead, leaving Garrus and Bell to eat her dust quite literally.

Bellator quickly followed and settled into the co-pilot position. His hands began turning on the navigation control and shields, as Garrus hauled himself up to the machine gun nest, securing his sniper rifle close at hand. The base doors groaned and slid away. Soon their little tank trudged past, heading towards their mission coordinates. 

“What do we know?” Garrus edged in through the comm after he clicked his helmet in place, cursing as Liluva’s careless driving jolted him up and down and side to side. 

“Not more than what I told you. S.S.V. Parsus found an unidentified space shuttle that looked like one of Tirnovian’s cans of the special food attempting to open up the primary relay the next system over. It didn’t respond to hails, so they shot at them, but the damn thing was nimble and led them on an FTL chase near our planet. Parsus barely managed to keep on its tail and bring it down, but not before it spat out about six escape pods, one of which seems to have escaped our flaks.” 

Bell let out a shrill hiss that pierced Garrus’ ears

“And they said no more air defenses, we’re just a training facility, not in hostile space they said. What, are you afraid of a few birds?” Bell mocked, imitating the highborn mannerisms of the Executor. Garrus would have liked to interject, but the vehicle’s frantic jerking and lurching on the rough terrain left him with precious little time to protect his pelvic bones. 

“Not to say I don’t trust you, Lil, but you only took me and Sharpeyes here to a forest that might be swarming with hostiles? Not that I’m not flattered.” his speech was peppered with grunts as the LAV lurched to the right, just in time to avoid a tree that, to Lil’s opinion, just sprouted fully formed in the middle of the road.

"Silva, I'm absolutely wounded that you'd say that! You mean G over there and I aren't enough for you? You damn whore." she chirped and Garrus thought he had never heard a more beautiful sound. "Relax, ladies, it'll be like a shopping trip to Cipritine, only this time G will finally find some asari red panties to match his striking blue markings. And with less casualties." she added as an afterthought. 

“She’s right, Bell, whatever hostiles survived that crash will most likely be dazed, if not damn comatose or dead.”

His hip spurs started digging into the seat rather painfully, each lurch and jump accentuating it. Finally, the tank slowed its speed until he could make out the outline of the damage the escape pod wrecked in its wake. It was a sad, small thing, barely able to contain three turians - maybe four if they were women. 

"Target in sight, Lil. I updated the Lav's nav sensors." he grunted, none too happy about the surrounding conditions. In a forest, the element of surprise was always on the part of the defenders.

"Silva, you're with me, fire up the proton ammo. Vakarian, if they're hostile, fire at will but aim for incapacitating rather than killing. Cryo rounds in your rifle, got that? Some idiots think we have a new species on our hand and the docs want first dibs." she barked the orders and jumped from the driver's seat, landing with a practiced swagger. Bellator was hot on her heels, seeking cover in a nearby copse. The two worked in tandem, Bell scouting ahead as Lil primed her amp in preparation for release.

“They cleaned out an entire parking lot with that little can?” Bell whistled appreciatively, taking in the fallen trees and the skid marks that led to the vessel. For a quarter of a leuga, the only thing in its wake was destruction on either side, with a smattering of confused wildlife that chirped and trilled and claxoned urgently. “Only a hanar pilot could’ve done that.” he added with a chuckle, but stopped when he heard Lil grumbling in their comm. Garrus found it sufficiently funny to turn off his microphone for a few seconds, not enough to risk their commander’s ire. 

As if on cue, a hatch flew open from the pod, sailing through the air before lodging itself in a cormella bush a couple of meters off. He could see Bellator's muscles seizing before all stiffness escaped him as the stims kicked in. Bell lunged with lightning speed for the northwestern side of the derelict vessel, away from the newly forged exit. Garrus hoisted his rifle and settled it on his shoulder, peering through the scope to get a better look at the pod and its escapee. His line of vision was impacted, so he promptly switched to concussive shots, inserting them in the special slot on his rifle. The heat-seeking tracker would give him a good chance to hit around the corners, enough to at least stun the unfortunate creature in its trajectory. 

"Batarians, didn't I tell you? Garrus, try all their comm ranges and see if you can pick up their radio chatter." 

"Negative, commander, none of the usual pick up. Wait, I'm picking something up on low frequencies...spirits, these haven't been used in centuries!" 

His omnitool sputtered and whirred on his wrist as he manually tuned the frequencies to catch a better reception. All that came was a garbled mess of consonants with no elegance, grating on his nerves. The translator chip nestled in his ear canal hurled barely veiled insults at him, all of them beginning and ending with "unidentified". 

"No use, they're probably speaking in code. I'm no linguist, but it doesn't sound like a batarian dialect." 

The language, in and of itself, attested to the fact that the speakers had no dual larynges, which always puzzled Garrus in alien species. What if their primary voice box was damaged and they couldn’t call for help otherwise? But it wasn’t that fact that gave him pause: it was the strange way it lilted and burst out in staccato, then lowered again in a hail of plosives that he was pretty sure no turian alive could pronounce. One of the voices was softer in tone, yet more aggressive in reach, which, to his mind, merely meant that it was in charge of whatever was going on. 

He lifted his eyes from his omni with renewed interest in the scene ahead of him, just in time to see a silhouette come face to face with Bell, who shrieked in surprise as the newcomer had - quite curiously - managed to pounce on him unawares. The ensuing madness became a blur to him, as his friend trained the rifle on the alien, only to have the creature double up, clutching its chest as it landed face-forward on the ground with a heavy thud. Lil sprinted out of her cover without having fired a shot, as bewildered as Bell by their combined carelessness, only to focus her sights immediately back to the escape pod, where the faint whisper of armor clanking on metal caused her to flare up the amp. Pulsing with biotic energy, she unleashed a singularity directed near the vessel’s corner, which sprung forth from the veil to burst into a mini blackhole when it reached its target. She was rewarded with a small body floating in the newly created gravity well. 

Bell approached the shifting black hole with caution, first snagging one of the creature’s hands that hung limply outside of its area of effect, before yanking vigorously on it to tug the body down. Lil soon joined him and gave the all-clear to Garrus, who returned the signal and was rewarded with a motion to come closer and help them restrain the captive. 

With no more heat signatures in sight outside of some harmless creatures and a hungry molossi circling them at a wary distance, he directed his steps towards the listless body that had emerged from the pod first, noting with professional curiosity that it no longer breathed. 

The smell of burnt meat and fuel overpowered his nostrils, the cloy stench making his gizzard churn even through his suit’s air filters. As he bent down on his haunches, he saw the same nausea reflected in his friends’ wary movements. True, he’d seen worse breaking up bar fights in Chora’s den, but the sight of some poor saps frying alive still brought a tinge of empathy. 

Had he been a less observant person, he might’ve thought the strange armor was merely some odd experimental piece from a merc group in the Terminus systems. He narrowed his eyes and took in the way it was constructed: the ceramic and ablative materials, the clean design, the streamlined joints and joinings, spoke to him of a military faction more than a ragtag group of individualists. In a split second, his hand detached itself from his will and found the clips that held the body’s helmet in place, snapping them and taking it off. His breath caught in his throat at the first sign of pink and purple skin, but his hand continued its motion, revealing a strange head that bore no resemblance to anything he had ever seen in his life. He was startled as he heard his own voice yell towards Lil and Bell, in time with him throwing the helmet away. Once again, turian paranoia proved to be right as he thanked the spirits for being forced to stew in the recycled air of his suit. 

He heard Lil approach him, momentarily pausing her mission report to base to bark orders at his friend, urging him caution in handling the prisoner. Taking the advice to heart, Bell connected his armored fist to the surviving alien’s helmet in such a way that, had she not been wearing it, her brain would have decorated the lush grass. Nonplussed, he snapped the restraints on her unconscious form, leaned her on a sturdy tree and lightly jogged the rest of the short distance to his friends. 

“By the titans, is that...a quarian?” she gasped, but kept a weary distance from it, dragging Garrus farther away at the same time. She spared a frown for Bell’s actions, but they did not stray sufficiently from her orders to deserve a reprimand. 

“Impossible, look at the hands and feet. Hey, hey, Bell, stay back!” 

“They’re not quarians, or asari, or batarians. Docs might be right, Lil. We should take them back for studying.” he ignored Garrus’ whine and got closer, turning the body around so it now faced upwards. The eyes were still open, a mixture of gray and blue looking to the sky in homecoming. “A few more dead ones in the pod, too. Can we…?” 

“Yes, Bell, we can.” she nodded demurely, noting the way Bell’s mandibles clacked together in distress. “They deserve an honest departure.” 

She turned towards them both and began speaking, a harsh undertone creeping into the usual sway of her words. Her left hand was flying on her omni’s haptic interface, rows upon rows of the mission report being born one frantic keystroke at a time. She never broke eye contact with either of them.

“Command says to retrieve as much tech and information we can, before the sealing crews get here for decon and further analysis. Garrus, that means you. Once you’re done, use the decon spray in the LAV to clean up. Only the live specimen is to be delivered, although I swear I heard Nomos’ squawks and mewls of indignation in the background. Apparently “quarantine” and “we’re not risking everyone’s lives” weren’t good enough answers for him. Squad Avictus is coming for pick-up with Nomos himself preening and pluming at the forefront. Bell, we’re on wood gathering duty. We need to build a mass pyre before the others come in.” 

Garrus kept his eyes trained on the prisoner, who showed no more obvious signs of life than the body in front of them. Her head lolled listlessly to the side, shoulders sagged and droopy in a perfect imitation of the art dummies strewn across his sister’s desk. His curiosity burned and rankled and he would’ve liked to take a look at her, just like a child poking a sleeping pet. At last, the good turian in him won out and he stepped inside the metal contraption that had brought these castaways. He marvelled at how cramped a space it was, and yet held four more bodies. The corpses he could live with, the stupid, soft padding of those chairs, that snagged at his angular protrusions and got stuck in his spurs, he could tolerate, but what got him finally issuing a series of innovative vulgarities was…

“What? What’s wrong?” Lil interjected halfway through his solo.

“Varren shit on a krogan’s headplate, they have base ten mathematics. I hate base ten technology.”

Truth be told, neither of them looked forward to the thorough decontamination they were about to receive.


	2. Words of our enemies, silence of our friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone on a foreign world, surrounded by unknown aliens, Shepard tries to make sense of the world around her. Garrus and Bell argue and Lil comes up with a plan to advance in rank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, this was a doozy to write! Aaand...it's also part of the reason why I'm already 1 week late on my promise to deliver weekly (my apologies to those who are following it). 
> 
> Without further ado, let's talk a bit about this chapter and, especially, the language part. I made the (pretty tough, to me) decision to have Shepard not understand large chunks of the conversation between Bell, Garrus and Liluva. It just stood to reason that, regardless of hundreds of years of technological advance, an alien language would be at least hard to translate. Earthlings in this point in time in the ME universe would have no linguistical point of reference for alien languages, aside from crude Prothean translations. 
> 
> Since Turians borrow so much from Latin and Greek cultures, I imagined their language as a mixture of both cultures (and horribly maiming them in the process). One notable addition is that I subscribe to the belief that Turians can not pronounce plosives very well (p and b sounds), due to the way their mouth is structured. That is not to say that they do not use them at all, just that they are rare. 
> 
> Following are the translated words for the convo that happens in the Med bay, so you will not be left out completely in the dark: 
> 
> _Nisiarma_ = unarmed  
>  _Vinctum_ = Literal meaning "defeated", it is the Turian linguistical equivalent of a prisoner of war. Prisoners of war are a relatively rare occurrence in Turian conflicts, due to their militaristic nature and penchant for all-out war. A popular saying holds: "You will only see a turian's back once he's dead."  
>  _Addo Vrohi_ = bringing disgrace  
>  _Aosiromai_ = Stand down  
>  _athoosivi_ = innocent  
>  _amolecta_ = to hug  
>  _Arc-sec_ = C-sec  
>  _stratirion_ = soldier  
>  _hrotiva_ = primitive  
>  _anthrohi_ = her people  
>  _vlurinos_ = any of us  
>  _tex_ = contraction of "texhnikayo", translated as technology/tech  
>  _omni-synergo_ = omni-tool  
>  _vetitum_ = vermin (informal, slang)  
>  _vlurillum_ = her kind (also used for they)  
>  _stern inea_ = tin cans (slang term for old ships)  
>  _uaza hede_ = mass relays  
>  _Hostra thelate cai rachni_ = How would you like the rachni  
>  _ordo sacer_ = Chain of command, referencing the higher citizenship tier that Garrus', Liluva's and Bellator's superiors would belong to. Formed from "ordo" = rank and sacer = superior  
>  _tourian_ = regional spelling of turian, from deep within the colonial planets  
>  _Saceria_ = shortened appelative for the Hierarchy, the complex system of command Turians operate under.  
>  _Vugni exo andachtilyd tirsylecto_ = Sparring outside of the ring is a grunt's [way of settling arguments]  
>  _troff_ = mess, also used for mess hall, it strictly references the communal eating spaces of militarized turians (whether in boot camp, in C-sec or in any other military structure)

Shepard bit back her nausea and the impending vomit pooling at the back of her throat, blinking the diffuse light away. In a while she began making out the light fixture on the ceiling and realised that that was not the clearing at the end of the road, but a meek halogen light with enough ambition to want to rival the sun in brightness. A whimper croaked its way out from her throat as the room swam around her. Her body did not feel like her own, more like a clay replica stuffed with rags and articulated with steel wiring. Gradually, she moved her neck and felt searing pain blossoming in her right shoulder. 

Her left hand fumbled for purchase, struggling to reach the painful spot, but somewhere along the way a gloved hand caught it and brought it back to rest on her chest. Soft leather, yet again three fingers. Something about that made her nervous, but why? A soft click followed by a hiss drew Shepard’s attention and she tried focusing her sight in that direction. 

Standing in an oddly-shaped, angular chair beside the bed, the silhouette grew clearer, outlining a square, longiline face covered in cream-colored plates and what appeared to be tribal markings. Amber eyes returned her stare and the alien’s mouth moved, aided by the flexible mandibles that took up most of its cheeks. 

“What are you?” Shepard forced herself to speak, straining to bring the words into being. All she could do was tilt her head to the side so she didn’t heave yesterday’s dinner on the rough sheets. 

The creature jumped at the sound of her voice, mandibles pressed against its cheeks. The glint in its eyes, coupled with the tightness of its face created an altogether unpleasant effect, as that of a predator staring at prey. Shepard instinctively reached for her pistol, muscles contracting in preparation, but found her holster to be empty. Much to her surprise, it...he? she? got up from her bedside and turned to leave, stopping in the doorway for a brief second before punching the controls and locking the door. 

The alien seemed to have never been acquainted with the laws of biology, or at least, not any biology Shepard understood. Standing at a bit over six feet tall, it appeared coltish and heavy-set at the same time, balancing a disproportionate barrel chest with a slender waist, round shoulders with sinewy arms, generous hips with lanky legs. In further mockery of evolution, her knees bent backward as she moved - no, the longer Shepard looked at them, the more they looked like ankles. If there was an omnipotent God, he’d have some explaining to do to these creatures. 

In the lingering silence of the alien's departure, she felt like an intruder, stepping into Sunday mass with her gored armor still on and then asking for the summary. Were these images the final struggles of an oxygen-deprived brain? Was her body expiring somewhere in the explosion that rocked her ship? No, too easy, she thought, and strained to focus her eyes, fighting the wisps of haze that tugged at her temples. She carefully pushed herself to a sitting position and began to take in her surroundings, inventorying them for future use. 

The room undoubtedly felt cramped, filled to the brim with queer looking medical equipment. Some of it lay directly next to her bed, attached to her by a complicated system of clips and suction cups. The monitors kept scrolling information at her, but the language was nothing she had ever seen before. Following the wires as they twisted upwards and above she saw an odd combination of a lid and a canopy, the function of which Shepard could not discern. It looked and felt much like a coffin lid, which did nothing at all to brighten her mood. 

Averting her gaze from that sight, she directed it at the storage crates in the far corner, neatly stacked and labeled with the same incomprehensible language. Right next to them there were a couple of obviously locked cabinets. They probably did not hold any sort of conventional weapons. Maybe a scalpel, if she was lucky. Sighing, her resolve momentarily broken, she gazed upwards and noticed the high ceiling and the amber tinted window completely out of her reach. Not a hospital exactly, but not a prison, either. She raised her hands to her head, mussing up her already dishevelled hair and felt the familiar weight of her wrist computer. That made her crack a wry smile. 

Pushing the covers away, Shepard staggered to her feet, swaying a little as she got used to the odd gravity. She moved to the chair, steadying herself on the inoffensive white cabinet by the other side of the bed as she went. The small device's haptic display radiated a cool blue glow as it came to life, welcoming her with the Systems Alliance logo faltering and glitching on the screen. Warning, you are outside of communication range the damned thing replied in its sultry voice. All the channels were jammed or broadcasting static. With a glance over her shoulder to the door, she pulled up the data packet that caused this whole mess and opened it. 

By Earth Standard Time, it was April now. Four months since human pathfinder ships had begun mysteriously disappearing on their discovery voyage. Three months since Aleksey's ship limped back to port, with most of the engineers ripping their hair out, yelling about monsters in outer space. He himself came back in a slick standard-issue Systems Alliance coffin. She tried not to think about that. It was simply too melodramatic, with the February sleet that turned her flame-red hair into a muddy brown as she draped the flag over the lid. Two months since they'd launched weaponised space probes to gather more information about these aliens. Privately, she didn't agree with sending nukes indiscriminately into space. Publicly, she aye-ayed with the best of them.

Earth was holding its breath. There was public outcry about frivolous spending on dangerous space cowboy adventures. The Solists in Parliament took the alien attacks as definitive proof that we should have first reinforced our own Solar system before scurrying off like cockroaches in space. The Expeditioners said that it smells like a conspiracy theory disseminated by the Solists. Most of the world revolved around unchanged, fifteen billion coffees at a time, although everyone felt that the Universe had become at once bigger and more cramped.

A month ago to the day since she had received her orders. Space probe Titus Andronicus realigned its antennae towards Earth. The first probe to do so. The spic and span staff officer briefed them dispassionately, as if he was more invested in alphabetically organising his filing cabinet than in their chances of return. What data it contained must be retrieved at all costs, right from the enemy's hands. Or claws, if the survivors were to be believed, and they should have been. 

Shepard opened the optical storage of her wristco and thumbed the small drive, angling it so that it reflected the light from the window above. She frowned and flicked it none too gently back into the drive. Flashes of holopics reverberated through her mind as the soothing buzz of data being read touched her skin. Two flame red heads, one blonde. An old dog whimpering and licking her face. A pre-fab building with an elderly woman in the living room window, disgruntled at the cat interrupting her writing. 

It figured, of course, that she would not be so lucky. The data was intact, yet the communications the small probe picked up from the aliens were either heavily encrypted or a garbled mess that sounded like a jet plane was spitting on a microphone. Her fingers moved on their own towards the translator app, a curse escaping through gritted teeth as the screen failed, at first, to acknowledge her click without the conductive gloves.

_Error! Language not supported!_

And just like that, with a laconical middle finger, she was cut off. 

Undeterred, she projected a keyboard on the bed and, splitting the holoscreen in two, pulled up the language recognition software on the other screen. The mattress, if rocks held together by bedsheets could be called that, made muffled sounds as her fingers nimbly stroked the virtual keys. Dismissing the myriad warnings her wrist computer gave off regularly, she continued tapping away, only stopping periodically to brush red curls from her face. Her hair felt matted and greasy.  
Damn aliens, what did they think I’d do? Strangle one of them with my hair tie? 

She almost leapt with joy when the two programs finally compiled into one single interface and began scanning the packets, but checked her enthusiasm and threw a cautious look at the door. Sweat dripped from her forehead, further matting her hair and soaking her collar, making typing close to impossible, even on the absorbent sheets. No more than an hour must have passed, yet she’d have almost no warning if one of the aliens would decide to pay a house visit. 

_If only she had a little more, just a little more time_. The first intelligible soundbites came in bursts, at first almost mechanical and mostly unintelligible, but then clearer and clearer. She could make out sentences now, most of them making no sense to her at all:

_“The asari Contemplation Festival is coming up, do you...uh...wanna go with, umm...?”_

_“...and in other news, the prices of eezo have been slowly rising. The Primarch…”_

_“Hi mero! How’s tero? I finally made it to my post, boot is starting…”_

Shepard frantically lowered the volume to a murmured drone as fear gripped her. She realised she hadn’t been paying attention to her surroundings, drunk as she was on her victory. 

_“...rampaging Klixen on your back, you turn, rifle ready…”_

_“...and though your fate is uncertain, let it be known, you’d die for the cause…”_

She barely had time to close the wristco before the door panel screeched open and two pairs of footsteps pounded on the metal floor, quickly closing the gap to the bed. Adrenaline pooled around the knot in her stomach as her neck was gripped by a strong arm and her whole body was hoisted up, feet swinging wildly in the air. 

It was not something she liked to admit, but the sight of the alien sapped her of all her strength and courage. Unlike the slender visitor before, this one’s traits had none of the elegance of a longiline, light-colored physiognomy, but was a harsh, dull gray, violently highlighted by crimson red markings that covered half of its entire face, stopping just short of the spikes that protruded out of its head. Its faceplates were uneven, scratches and cracks visible throughout, more akin to the Moon’s craters than a living being. 

“What do here?” it yelled at her with undisguised hatred burning in its small eyes the color of annealed steel, needle sharp fangs visible when its mandibles twitched violently away from its face.

The voice was English, although clipped and artificial as the translator implant in her ear still worked out the subtleties. It would have brought her immense joy, had she not been more concerned about her rapidly diminishing air supply. Struggling to disentangle its talons from her neck, she thrashed her legs about, hitting nothing but air.

“Bellator, put down! She nisiarma vinctum and you’re addo vrohi on squad with behavior!” the second one bellowed, face constricted and cool flames lapping in his iceberg eyes, but Bellator did not release his grasp in the slightest. Cautiously, the second one approached and yanked on the red-faced one’s hand, drawing it away from the pistol he was preparing to unholster. 

“Aosiromai, this is not your order now. Spiritus, she’s not athoossivi for you amolecta and tell all right, Arc-sec here now. She’s a stratirion and I know she was doing something, I heard her. If this hrotiva managed to contact anthrohi her, we swim in her varren ilk soon.” 

His grip loosened somewhat as his attention returned fully to her. She didn’t think it would be a relief to not have to see his sharp head-spikes, but there it was, his mangled face was strangely comforting by comparison. Her lungs welcomed the breath of fresh air even as her headache roared in the back of her skull. 

“What doing here, hrotiva? What are you sneaking? Speak, now!”

“She not understand you, not understand vlurinos. Have not seen their tex? Spiritus, they don’t have omni-synergo, but the able to translate alien languages!” he keened, a low whine barely audible underneath his gravelly voice.

Shepard only managed to groan, her eyes burning and throat raw with every aborted inhalation. It was beginning to get dark again.

“You defend vetitum ist? Vlurillum have been hopping the galaxy in stern inea and activating any uaza hede, or you forget that? Hostra thelate cai rachni again, or worse?” Bellator’s nostrils flared, seeming to drink in the scent of Shepard's last breaths, an almost serene, detached air about him despite the ominous thrum of his words.

Without warning, Garrus connected his fist to the other alien’s face, causing him to topple over the bed and let go of his chokehold. Shepard gasped as her back hit the chair’s frame in the fall, but wasted no breath and began greedily sucking in air with big gulps, choking and hacking up spit as she did so. Incredulity was slathered all over Bellator’s face, his hand rubbing the sudden sore spot, gray eyes fixed on Garrus as he moved toward Shepard. 

Garrus lifted her up in his arms as if she were a mere plaything and safely deposited her in the corner of the room, extending his arm almost protectively in front of her. Her hands moved on their own, creeping towards his holstered gun. The minute shift of his position, free arm over the pistol, indicated he was aware of the movement.

“Hrotiva or not, we need information out of her. What the ordo sacer decide to do with her afterwards is none of our business, whether they decide to bring the legatium in or not, but, for now, Liluva’s orders are den concilianda and you know that.” 

“Ass-kissing like that and blindly following orders is why you’ll never achieve greatness. You’ll be a good tourian, sure, but never great.” he spat contemptuously, his voice a baritone emitting from deep within his chest.

She could tell that Bellator’s words had cut very deeply by the way Garrus’ entire stance tensed, but he did not budge. 

“And reckless, hotheaded action is why you’ll never be accepted in the Saceria!” 

As if in trance, they both lunged at each other again, teeth bared and snarling, but suddenly froze into place as a blue mist crackled in the room and sent them sprawling haphazardly to different directions. Shepard stared in awe as time stopped, craning her neck to look for the source.

“You both are a disgrace to our squad if this is how you show yourselves in front of a new species. Vugni exo andachtilyd tirsylecto way of settling arguments! I should strip both of you of your ordo and send you to Maintenance to scrub the floor for the rest of your lives! Out of my sight, now!” a soft, yet firm voice came through Shepards’ translator, this one from a more familiar alien.

Her whole body was emitting the same blue glow that had stopped the two combatants in their tracks, a chill aura filling the air around her with a static charge. 

“Lil, I…” Garrus offered as he straightened himself out and reached for Bellator, talons gripping forearm with familiar ease, hoisting him up almost effortlessly. 

The latter did not push his assistance away and joined his side meekly. He gave no sign of wishing to break silence and only offered his open arms to Lil. Shepard shuddered as she saw those hands, their stinging red imprint still fresh on her skin and in the tightness of her throat. She felt lightheaded with the sudden rush of blood and air, faint throbs of fear tracing goosebumps on her back.

“No, Garrus, I expected more out of you. You're assigned troff duty. Go bring the vinctum food! Bellator, report to the med-bay at once.” 

With a wave of her hand she stopped emitting the blue light and dismissed them in one fluid arch of her shoulder. 

As the two males stalked away, falling effortlessly in a well oiled symmetrical cadence, neither even so much as casting a glance at her, Shepard was straining to distinguish which one was Garrus. They looked so dishearteningly similar, so she forcefully committed to memory the harsh plane of his features, the linear cobalt blue tribal markings that slashed across his face. She would need to remember this one, he'd have his uses.

Oblivious to her inner machinations, Lil kneeled in front of her and extended her hand in a conciliatory gesture. Shepard winced as she saw the razor like talons flex. The turian woman must have picked up on that, clasping her hands and offering her forearm instead. 

“I know you can’t understand me, but I’m sorry for their behavior. You were lucky I came along to stop it.” Lil's voice droned atonally as she helped Shepard up and onto the bed, in sharp contrast to the usual richness of their flanging voice. At first she had meant to refuse the alien’s help, but her weakened state left little option other than falling face first on the floor. 

She was tempted to turn on her translator and speak to Lil, but quickly brushed that thought aside. There was something about her relaxed, almost open attitude that Shepard did not trust. It felt too easily granted. For now, she filed away the information that they, too, were emotional beings. And that this one was their commanding officer, or whatever passed for command in their military.

The alien seemed poised to speak again, but thought better of it, only a slight flicker of her mandibles betraying her intent. That served to give Shepard a very good view of her needle sharp teeth, decisively one of the more terrifying aspect of their anatomy. That is, if she’d have to pick only one trait out of the myriad contenders for that title.

Alone once more, Shepard wondered how humans could have been so mistaken in imagining a peaceful, benign alien society populated by beautiful humanoid demigods. 

It was not that humans thought aliens didn't exist, they'd settled that with discovering the Prothean beacon on Mars, but the sheer extent of space was something they did not, as of yet, seemed to grasp completely. Somehow, she was not convinced that these were the ancient spacefaring race who had left the artifact on Mars. 

It was a cruel position she found herself in, to be the first human to contact aliens and to do so as a prisoner, wanted for information. She knew that, whatever happened, history would not treat her kindly.

And so she stood perched morosely on the bed, throat parched with shame and thirst.


	3. The prodigal son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand, we're back! I had wanted to publish this on a regular schedule, but I failed due to personal circumstances. My apologies to the people who read and were waiting for more. The good news is that I have the whole thing mapped out and am now on the final 5 chapters!
> 
> So I will stick to a strict weekly schedule from now on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lifebearer brigade = intragalactic turian charity similar to the Red Cross. Their specialty is ensuring protection and assistance for victims of war and other situations of violence.
> 
> To have face = turians place great value and importance on the concept of dignity and pride, expressed collectively through their "face". To "have face" means to be an honorable member of society, whereas being "faceless" is considered one of the highest insults in turian society, denoting a dishonest person, often an outcast. For this reason, turians will go to great lengths to save face both for themselves, and for others in their social circle. 
> 
> _fidus_ friend = often used in the contracted form _fidus_ , it is used to describe a member of a turian's "family of choice". Due to turians mustering out very early and being separated from their family of birth, they will form strong attachments to their comrades and companions, sometimes valuing this bond above that of their birth family. To call someone "fidus" is a mark of trust and informality.

He was a good turian, one of the best his generation had to offer. Or so he'd been told. Best in school, best in his military cohort, best in his tactics classes, best with a gun, but, somehow, just not good enough. And Bellator was no better than a krogan brute for bringing that up, knowing it would rend his carapace to pieces. It was not easy comparing himself to the red faced turian, who seemed to always do the wrong thing and yet constantly be in high regards. Even now, as he was warming the alien's goop, stirring occasionally, he thought with bitterness that it was he who was being punished, not the hotheaded, reckless varren he called his best friend. 

There were 374 Council regulations forbidding hostilities against primitive spacefaring species, and yet here he was, accomplice in the kidnapping of one. He let out a thrum of amusement from his secondary larynx at the thought of the asari councillor's head tentacles flopping around when she’d hear about this mess. Maybe he was not such a good turian after all, but he had no doubt Lil's motives were noble.

He stirred the pot, the over abundance of foreign spices tingling his nose and making his foreplate itch. The food had come from a crate filled to the brim with golden-foiled packages with strange writing and pictograms. One of the engineers suffered minor burns when he tried opening up the small box attached to each package and it overheated in his hand. It did not look particularly edible even by his standards. Something shifted in his peripheral vision and he fluttered his mandibles in a grin as his friend came out of the infirmary with a face bandage draped over his lower jaw. Bellator returned the gesture and ambled to the kitchen, his long legs making short work of the distance between them, until he stopped near the counter and began inspecting a pot.

"Hey Palaven-blue, doc says I'm finally a war veteran, what do you say to that?" he said and unceremoniously sat his butt on the counter. He turned the pot over again ang again, looking for scratches.

"I say at least be original and don't hit me over the head with a pan. I don't want that pension as much as you do." Garrus fell easily in their usual banter. His shoulders slumped a little, relief tingling the back of his head, just underneath his fringe.

"Just like your mom would have done, eh?" he laughed and slammed the pan close to Garrus' hands, eliciting the wince he'd secretly hoped for. This time, though, Garrus had not moved his hand.

"Or maybe your mate, if she hadn't dumped you for some Lifebearer brigadier."

Garrus shifted his weight from one leg to the other. The subtle social game they were playing with their gestures, voices and pheromones was soon going to end and they'd reestablish their respective places. For a different species their interaction would be dumbfounding, but any other turian would notice the gradual tensing and relaxing of their postures, the change from sour and tangy to simply metallic, the untranslatable hums, thrums and flanging noises moving from discordant to harmonious. 

"Still touchy over the alien? I knew you liked 'em raw and savage, something to chip away that rookie shine of yours." 

"It's that rookie shine of mine that keeps the ladies coming. That, and this irresistible voice."

Bellator seemed on the verge of replying, but stopped as his nose curled up and tendrils of spices disrupted his delicate olfactory gland.

"What on Palaven is that smell? It's horrible."

"The alien special." He managed to say before a sneeze overtook him, careful to unleash it away from the counter and his friend. The temperature had cooled off, settling for warmth and intimacy. They were still equals, after all.

"Look on the bright side: at least now we instilled some well deserved fear into her. She'll squeal like a volus caught with his credit chit in the dark side of Munihilex."

"I challenge you to find one light side of Munihilex. And I don't know about that, she seems made out of tougher chitin." the leather hide beneath his browplates tensed, but the set of his lipless mouth betrayed amusement. 

Gesturing to the pot, he gently pushed Bellator away from the plates and cutlery and prepared to deliver the food. 

"Try not to kill her with a sneeze, eh? That would be a bad way to get her to touch your groin plates." the red faced turian said in a sing-song voice as he departed for the armory, a confident spring in his step. 

“Bell, wait, I...we need to talk.” he winced upon hearing the hiss in his voice and the reaction it had on his friend, who now stood rooted to the spot, fringe flattened in confusion. He reluctantly put the pan away, looking towards the entrance for signs of Lil checking on him.

“Blue, I was out of line earlier and I’m sorry. You’re a better turian than I am, you know that. I just got a bit hot under the collar.” he fidgeted with the armor seal for his chest, flipping it open and closed repeatedly. 

“No, it’s not about that, I’m not upset about what you said. I’m just worried about your stim use, it’s - you’re using them as a crutch and it’s making you more aggressive than usual.” he blinked, unsure of how to continue or what to expect. Heart-to-hearts are usually reserved for the girl you have on the station, not two grown turians, regardless of their friendship bond. He restrained a sneeze that tickled the roof of his mouth, courtesy of the sweltering gruel wafting its sickly aroma around him. Bell was now fully turned towards him, his eyes pointedly inspecting his boots, as if afraid to find them lacking. 

“It’s not what you think. Wow, that was a stereotypical druggie reply.” he chuckled, although the humor did not extend to his eyes, murky and unfocused. They looked as if he had silverleaf roots growing through them. Bell swallowed, mandibles snapping repeatedly against his face. “Savia always said that I had it in me, that I used stims as an excuse to be violent, not the other way around. I don’t know anymore, I just...I’m at best an ok shot, I don’t have any sort of special skills. My only redeeming quality is that I can take more abuse and punishment than most. Stims just help me perform that bit better when I protect the squad on the field.” 

“Has anyone told you you’re a bit smarter than a hanar poet today?” he closed the distance to Bell and hooked a talon on his armor’s collar, dragging his head forward until their foreplates touched. His hand curled over the shorter turian’s forearm, squeezing just enough for the tactile feed in the plates to respond. “You’re not expendable, Bell, remember that. You’re my friend and you’ve always been the best at pulling my targets out of cover. Get some help.”

Garrus felt Bell leaning into the embrace for the span of a few heartbeats, his entire posture relaxing in rippling effects, as a river long astray finally returning to its bed. 

“So, is this the part where we start brushing our mandibles together and admit to being in love? ‘Cause I still think it’s weird to feel another man’s mandible spurs, but I might make an exception for you.” Bellator snickered and slapped his friend’s shoulder, which Garrus returned with a half hearted shove. 

He picked the food tray once he had assembled it and measured his steps as he traversed the mess hall, head deliberately held high. It was degrading to be seen bussing food around like a pogue. He bristled as the younger soldiers seated at the tables turned their faces away from him, allowing him a shred of pride. He didn't need their feeble attempts at saving him face, he will serve his penance the hard way, as all turians did. Or at least the worthy ones.

He didn’t really mind bringing food for this prisoner. Garrus was intrigued by the alien, and the three of them had taken turns on the road back guessing if they were somehow related to the asari, or the quarians. Lil argued that it was maybe both, an unfortunate genetic experiment before such things were completely forbidden by Council law. Her body was definitely asari, although thicker and less elegant, but the skin color and the hair...he'd heard that quarians had hair, but never actually saw one without a mask. The thought of it made his gizzard churn a bit, imagining how unsanitary it might be to have follicles growing out of your head. Bell had merely whistled when he saw the prisoner’s red strands of hair haphazardly spilling on the gurney, completely detached from any form of curiosity or awe. 

As the doors receded into the wall, he expected her to still be huddled in a corner or at the very least show fear at his arrival. The alien looked at him dispassionately, perhaps with a hint of fleeting curiosity in her mud-colored eyes. Her position made Garrus’ whole body hurt just looking at it: perched atop the bed, she had her legs crossed, each foot placed on the opposing thigh with no apparent effort. The palms of her hand lay upturned on her knees, all five fingers splayed, and her elbows were so close to her waist that it could not have been comfortable. 

Noticing his uncertainty, she slowly nodded, gaze focused on his face, and opened her mouth to utter something in her husky, atonal voice. It grated his ears to hear her speak. Her timbre was even more unnerving than a hanar's. He had to assume that she meant to be concilliatory by her gestures. No, definitely not asari, not with that ungraceful face that changed shape faster than a Klixen's rampage. 

Garrus offered her the tray and settled on the chair besides the bed, resting his ankle spurs in the hollow space available for them. The curiosity with which she studied the food was amusing, like a pyjak confronted with deep water. Her lips turned downwards, her nose crinkled and she turned away from it, instead grabbing the canteen with both hands, her five fingers clumsily grasping the turian design. 

After an examination of its contents by almost sticking her protruding nose in the orifice, she drank it greedily, her neck distending, bobbing up and down with every swallow. Bruises had formed on the skin below her jaw, vivid blue fading to purple on the outskirts. He’d seen similar bruises on asari before, a consequence of their unprotected bodies. 

"What are you going to do to me?" she pushed the tray aside, and it took a moment to register that the choppy Palaven standard he heard came from her. His training be damned, he let out a startled yelp. 

“How can you...where did you get a translator?” 

“I made it, reptile, now answer me.” 

"I don’t know what that is, slow down. Do you understand the trouble you’re in?"

"Why did you build the relays if you didn't want them to be used?"

He didn’t answer at first. He assessed her, cataloguing with ease potential weak spots in her anatomy. _Spirits, there were so many!_ Seemingly oblivious, she crossed her arms on her chest, pushing her chin upwards and arresting his gaze. Tougher chitin, indeed.

"What did you do to Moore?"

"I...I don’t understand. What is a moore?”

“The other person with me when we escaped. I don’t know what you did to me, but I need to know if he is safe.” she continued, her voice wavering. Croaking almost. 

“I...listen. Damn it. I suppose no harm can come of me letting you know. I’m sorry, he...he didn’t make it. The shock must have been too much." Garrus said and fluttered his mandibles, which brought the unexpected result of startling her into silence. He remembered his training from C-sec and restrained himself. 

“You didn’t hurt him?” 

“No. Listen, I can’t talk to you. I have to raise the call to command. You’re not supposed to have access to technology, and I’m not allowed to talk to you.” 

"Why am I being detained? Why was my ship attacked?” 

“Standard operating protocol for invasive maneuvers by unidentified spacecraft, augmented by safety measures for new species. We have to make sure you and what you bring with you will not be dangerous to us or the ecosystem. Especially since you haven’t been properly quarantined. How does your translator adapt so fast?”

“What are my rights in this situation?” she looked like she was crossing off a list of questions. Garrus wondered if his appearance was just as unnerving to her as hers was to him. 

“You’ll be able to discuss that in detail with Liluva Varihierax and the base commander. You’ve met Liluva earlier. I’m merely here to get you your food and make sure you’re alright.”

“Then why are you still here? I’m fine.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again. She sat there, a look of disapproval clear on her face. Whenever she took a breath, her loose hair followed her chest, rising and falling in a mesmerizing pattern. 

“You’re right, I should be going. I’m sorry about what happened earlier, it’s probably a lot to take in. You...you were building the translator, weren’t you?” 

“Yes. Your friend had every reason to kill me. I fully expected him to. I suppose I should be grateful to still be here, wherever here is. Thank you for helping me.” 

“Thankful to be in captivity? That’s...is that a thing in your species? A turian soldier would have been under total surveillance in a situation like this, for fear of them committing suicide. You’re under arrest and the potential charges are no small mountain. Do you understand what you did? Terrorism and endangering galactic peace are so bad they give hardened criminals pause.”

“That’s insane! I - no one knew - we thought we were alone! Alone in space! And now I’m talking to a real, living alien and...I should have expected this. I don’t know what I expected. I couldn’t have...” 

“To me, you’re the alien.” he paused and looked into her eyes. “There are things out there in the galaxy that would give you pause. You aren’t supposed to activate the mass relays without knowing where the exit is. Even if you thought you were alone, did your people not have enough common sense to think about that?”

That seemed to touch a nerve.

“In our military we at least have the common sense to not assault our prisoners before we’ve told them what they did wrong and what their rights are." she said and wrinkled her nose. Her facial skin - if skin it was - was spotted dark brown in places, somewhat reminiscent of the Cathulia colony markings. 

"That must be boring. I need at least a good brawl in the morning, before breakfast" he chuckled, but it fell flat.

The deadpan delivery did nothing to alleviate the acidic tang of tension in the air. She was still sitting crosslegged, but her earlier peace had completely drained out of her muscles.

“You were trying to be funny? Listen, reptile, I just lost all of my crew, who were my friends and family and I don’t even know why. I woke up to a breakfast of punches and kicking and blue magic. I think somewhere between [error] and my spiritsdamn morning [error] reading the [error] [approximate translation: vidnews], I must have lost my sense of fu[error] humor.”

“Hey, hey, I’m sorry, I can’t understand half of what you’re saying. Speak slower.” 

She inhaled sharply and shook her head.

“Right, no colloquialisms yet.”

Everything about her looked so strange to him and yet she fit without a glitch in this room designed for the asari students. To him, seated opposite in a turian chair, everything felt at once too small and too cramped: the bed looked soft, the medicine cabinets fragile and the rug around the bed snagged at his two-toed boots, almost making him trip when he had first entered. The only thing remotely friendly to him was the window, placed just a bit above his normal line of view. The female opposite him - and Nomos was pretty certain it was a female - was scrutinizing his every movement intently, as if she, too, were studying him for weaknesses. Instinctively, he got up, straightening to his full height and dwarfing her without breaking eye contact. 

He knew he should leave, raise the alarm and cut off all of her access to technology, yet curiosity was a burning brand in his brain. Any newly discovered species were usually contacted by asari and would be well enough brought up to speed by the time they met any of the other intragalactic members. Sure, most of them still retained some natural revulsion towards aliens for a while, but they didn't shoot at you. Well, not usually. This was something no ancestor of his had ever done, be the first to talk to a new race. He broke his aggressive stance and looked away, trying to put her at ease. 

"So...uh...what do you call yourselves?" smooth, Vakarian, real smooth, he thought as he cringed internally. 

"I'm a human. Garrus?" the furrow in her brow relaxed and her whole expression became blank to him, a devoid canvas. She had pronounced his name wrong, but the effort she made with her weak voicebox was obvious. 

Pushing on her hands, she drew herself up to level with him, as much as her diminutive stature would allow. She ignored the tray as it rattled and fell to the floor. Miraculously, the goop in it did not spill. It bounced around in a gelatinous warble until it settled back into its confines. 

"How do you know my name?" 

"I make it a point to know everyone who has ever helped me." 

“Hm, and here they say all turians look alike.” 

When he did not back away from her, she lifted her head a bit higher and contorted her face, pulling her ears back and narrowing her eyes. She stood there silently for a few heartbeats too many, not moving an inch. 

“Why did you stop the other one? I’m merely a curiosity to you. Not worth risking your neck.” 

One of her hands skittered up to her hair and brushed the colored follicles away from her face with a quick, mechanical gesture. Whatever she meant by that was lost on him. She acted like they bothered her, and he could definitely understand that. 

"I stopped Bellator because what he did was not right. You are a valuable source of information." 

"Then you’ll tell them I talked to you."

"You would do the same."

"I would. Thank you for saving me, nonetheless. My name is Shepard." 

She brought her hand towards him slowly, deliberately, and let it hang open with most of the fingers pressed together. He assessed her stance. If she wanted to fight him, her posture would put her at a significant disadvantage. 

“She-p-ard.” he drew out the word, repeating it as he stared at her hand, unsure of what to do.

"Human custom of trust, you expose your hands to show you have no weapons."

Awkwardly, he drew up his own hand and clasped her forearm, placing his talon on the visible vein at the crook of her arm. Her light muscles tensed up as she felt the pressure, but she did not flinch or pull away.

"Garrus Vakarian. Turian custom, you touch the other's exposed vein beneath the viata plate to show that you can kill at any time, but choose not to."

"I...trust that you won’t." her eyes did not quite meet his, instead focusing on his colony markings.

The human's - Shepard's - skin felt like lukewarm water, smooth and unlike anything he'd felt before. Not dry, the way an asari’s might feel, and not sleek, like a batarian's.

The words hung between them like a promising gust of wind on Palaven, but he decided his curiosity was not worth being questioned on why he had loitered in the prisoner’s room. He nodded his head towards the exit and disentangled himself from the handshake. As the doors retracted to let him through, he realised none of them had been wearing gloves. Wouldn't that be an interesting conversation piece at the dinner table? Oh, just death by human germs.

His fringe bristled when he saw Lil waiting for him at the end of the corridor, leaning on the wall with the help of her ankle spurs. He barely had time to salute before she pounced on him.

"So she talked to you."

Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, Garrus forced his mandibles open, exhaling suddenly. She straightened up, stretching her neck sideways and began walking, gesturing for him to follow. Silence closed around them as he trailed a step behind her through the long hallways, their boots clicking and scraping against the floor. The other turians stationed in the base paid them no mind. Only Tirnovian glanced up from his pots and pans and realised something was amiss, but no one paid the old gossiping cook any mind. 

When they were safely out of reach of prying ears, Liluva turned towards him, a vague blue fog around her hands. In the distance, a morickau was chirping away, its dual vocal cords vibrating a soothing song.

"Lil, I didn’t tell her anything. You know me better than that."

"Do you have any idea what a breakthrough that is! We can communicate with her. That’s guaranteed to bring us at least a few citizenship tiers."

"I don't see..." he tried to interject, but was quickly silenced.

"This is our chance to finally be promoted and it hangs on by a thread. Capturing that alien alive, making her speak, it could really do wonders for our careers. You do realize that, don't you?" 

It sounded like a plea. Garrus had to concede that every word she spoke was true. 

"You have a plan."

"Investigator Eritrus is going to be here in three days. We have until then to get as much information out of her as we can. Get her translator, find out more about her species."

"Eritrus?! Are you sure it's him?"

She looked away, focusing her gaze on the forest ahead. Garrus’ spine felt ramrod straight. He attempted to shift his weight and distance himself from her. 

"They reinstated him specifically for this job. I know his methods are... controversial, but he knows his way around an interrogation."

"Knows his way around...? Lil, are you hearing yourself? Our own councillor is still trying to placate the damage with the salarians after that bastard sent two STG members into early disability retirement. He's C-sec's bogeyman. They'll be scraping her off the floor when he's done!" He threw his arms in the air, oblivious to the way Lil cocked her hip and turned her body sideways, giving him a full view of her keel bone.

"This is the law, Garrus, the aliens violated Council laws." she accentuated her words with a jab on his chestplate.

"...that they had no way of knowing were there. Why did no one tell the Council we found a new race? Why isn't a diplomat coming to talk to her?"

"This is not the time to question the Hierarchy, or have second thoughts about your loyalty. If I could, I would save the alien, but it's beyond us now."

He backed away a step more, unsure of the ground he was treading upon. 

"But that would be a violation of at least a dozen treaties with the asari and salarians. We’ll be roasted alive for this. And just think - think about it for a moment - if this blows up, who is going to get the blame? The Primarch of Palaven or some lowly C-sec officers who went rogue?"

"You can say that, you'll have hundreds of choices to prove yourself, while I will rot on this rock forever. Or maybe I’ll be transferred to a Cabal with the rest of the biotic freaks." her voice dripped venom, but she quickly regained composure and added "I’m sorry. They won’t roast us alive, I made sure of that. I talked to my father. We can only benefit from this, don’t you see?"

“This is not the way to do it, Lil. I can’t do this in good conscience.”

“Then do it because I tell you to. As your commanding officer.”

Garrus hung his head and nodded.

“Am I dismissed, ma’am?” 

***

Spirits, this had been a terrible day, and it did not show any signs of ending soon. His mandibles flared slightly in discomfort as he remembered that he hadn’t had a good water-scrubbing in at least two solar revolutions. He’d have given an entire month’s pay to feel the buffer on his plates, to succumb to hot water trickling down his fringe, pooling in the nooks of his cowl, before spilling in between the ridges of his abdominal plates. No time for luxury now, he thought with a quick, disappointed flick of his fringe as he dismissed the sensory fantasy and got up to leave from the classroom. 

He closed his datapads meticulously into the filing cabinets, leaving no trace behind of his existence in the weapon room. The pristine workbenches, with their tools all stacked away carefully in their designated drawers, were reproaching him for his emotional clutter. Even the projector, which normally sputtered and slacked at just the right time when he was making an important point, shone a perfectly modelled cross-section of a Carnifex in mid-extension. He hit the filing cabinet with a strength that sent it recoiling back into his knee. Garrus decided that it would stay open, in defiance of orderliness. 

The hallway to the garrison was mostly deserted, with some of the monitoring staff scrambling to the courtyard in a hurry. They paid him no mind as they were gliding forward on their predestined paths, in and out of the shadows of the large windows that bathed the corridor in a soft, rosy tinge. He stopped at the threshold of one of the panes, sliding his hand forward just enough to capture the light. The two turians sitting on the cushioned window seat, absorbing the last heat of the day, seemed a bit perplexed by his reluctance to warm his carapace, but they would never question the privacy of someone off duty. They simply stared at him for a beat, then resumed their discussion. 

He turned his hand first this way, then that, flexing it, then opening it again, marvelling like a fledgling who had just discovered his talons. Garrus swiped it back from the light and with furious movements, took the glove off and stuffed it in his ammo pocket. His hands were no different than they were this morning, yet, somehow, they felt foreign to him. He touched the soft leathery pads on his palm, which were a tad lighter than the back of his hand, brushed the joining of the plates on his knuckles and, as he slowly brought it back into the light, traced his thumb over his talons. As the rays collected in the palm of his hand, he clutched them and sighed at the thought of how monstrous he must look to other species. 

He picked up his pace as he navigated the pyjak warren that was the base, turning corner by corner past the classes, with their empty desks and yawning doors, past the school buildings and their sheltered dormitories, over underground parking lots and secret passages, cutting through the magnificent garden for visitors and towards the obstacle course that stood adjacent to the C-Sec officers’ and instructor’s barracks, then up the stairs to his floor. 

The door to his room yawned open, feeling every bit like the entrance to a solitary sarcophagus, the air cloy and sticky. He started unfastening his armor’s straps, the clasps groaning as he carelessly let the pieces slide off and fall on the floor. Hailing the anthem at the end of the day was pure drudgery, seeing rows upon rows of students, instructors and soldiers mindlessly singing along, a mass of shoulderplates and hipbones touching, with eyes squared on the Hierarchy's sigil perched on top of the building. Herein lies one of the downsides of a collective society. 

The locker door fell off when he opened it, a sad reminder that it should have been fixed months ago, when one of its hinges was barely creaking. There was a metaphor in there somewhere, but he didn't chase it long enough. 

His off-duty suit awaited him like a skeleton waiting to be made flesh and he mechanically reached out to dust it off. Lil's touch still lingered on his hand, warm and secretive. Thinking of her delicate naked hide brushing against his palm brought only frustration. The human had blunt fingers and small hands that, for all rights, shouldn’t have been able to hold a gun. He reluctantly picked up the locker door and slammed it back into place, willfully dredging up the thoughts that he had banished earlier.

He couldn't help but imagine her in the same prone position as he saw the other human, slack-jawed and clutching her chest as she died. When Garrus had removed his helmet, his eyes were glazed over, lacking any of the vitality Shepard’s had - for now, he appended. Would anyone chronicle her crew’s deaths? He doubted that. The Hierarchy would make sure of that, couching the truth in a logorrhea of patriotism and duty to the intragalactic peace. The door creaked on his way out and he shot it a disbelieving stare, before grumbling and heading for the exit.

Outside, the courtyard bustled with life, chirping voices rising up in a cacophony. Groups of friends began gathering, teeming with life, exchanging pleasantries and secrets, safely nestled in the crowd's anonymity. Over the silhouette of the guard posts, sunset gleamed on the horizon, the red sky an open wound to his eyes. Casting a quick glance over the crowd, he noticed Lil holding hands with Bellator in the front row, so he moved to the back of the gathering, wishing the ordeal would pass quickly. 

The upside of a collective society was that everyone was so attuned to others’ emotions that they would know when to steer clear of someone who did not want to be disturbed. Everyone, it seemed, apart from the old cook, who enjoyed almost paranormal levels of tolerance for his nosiness. 

“Officer Vakarian, what a pleasure!” he boomed, seemingly oblivious to Garrus’ steely scowl.

“Tirnovian, good to see you. You’re not with the administrative staff, I see.” he hadn’t meant to sound so brusque and unkind to the old man, but his subvocals thrummed displeasure. 

“Ah, yes, the old farts, you mean. No, no, don’t mind me, I’m just here for a better view.”

“There are four rows in front of us, there is no worse view than this.” 

Tirnovian hummed absently, suddenly fascinated by the grit beneath his talons. He inspected both hands at length, only looking up once he was fully satisfied that whatever he’d seen there was gone. Just when Garrus actually began believing him, he cocked his head and looked at him with a weathered face, plates dulled and uneven, in stark contrast to his lively eyes. 

“Kid, your face is bare before my eyes. I served you hot chocolate when you were a fledgling and brandy when you were almost old enough to drink. Don’t act all haughty with me, it ain’t gonna work.” 

“I’m sorry, Tir, it’s a terrible moment right now.” his fringe flattened in shame, so he extended his hand to clasp the forearm of the cook.

“Why? Because of the alien, or because of that one over there making the sweet flutterings to your fidus friend?” Tirnovian's gaze lingered on Bellator's studied carelessness and Garrus thought he saw an inkling of disapproval in the groan that escaped him.

“They’re not really different matters, the way I see it.” he conceded, his mouthplates parting ever so slightly to reveal his teeth. 

When he glanced up at the prisoner’s window, he saw a small face intently watching the proceedings below her, hands pressed firmly to her ears. It might have been his imagination, but it seemed to him as if she’d searched him out and was now boring a hole through the back of his skull. 

Later, he thought, and turned back towards his curious companion. 

“I can’t speak much, but I’ve made a decision I’m not proud of and someone will suffer either way I turn it.”

Tir let out a guffaw, the sound rather resembling talons being dragged across steel mesh. His laughter died soon, replaced by the pall smell of loss.

“I had a son once, Garrus, and you remind me of him so much it makes my hide itch with longing. Bright boy, proud, honorable, a fool through and through. Fell for a radical separatist girl so hard I thought his fringe would fracture. He ran with them, even painting their ugly marks on his face. Drove his mother to suicide to clear our family’s name.” he emitted a low, barely perceptible warble that alerted one of the younger students, but not enough to make her ask questions. 

“Vitius made his decision and slept in the nest he’d dug, although that proved to be his last one. Take this from an old, rambling turian: just make sure your decisions count, fledgling. There’s precious little hope in this world for us to come trampling over it.” 

“Tir, I had no idea. I’m sorry for your loss.” the words came sprouting up like sea urchins, hollow and scratching his neck. His mandibles tightened and tilted downwards on reflex, a sign the old man did not miss. 

“Don’t be, I made some bad choices of my own, but they ain’t something I could talk about with so many ladies around here.” he chuffed and snorted out a forced laughter “You just mind your back plates and keep your compass straight.”

"Thanks, I will." he turned to look at Tirnovian, but found he had spoken to the turian's back as he was retreating to join the administrative rows. His raised hand waving goodbye was the only sign that Garrus' words registered.

 _Keep your compass straight. Do things right or not at all. Be proud to serve. Be obedient._ One more conflict to add to the ever growing list of his moral failings. Four rows ahead, Lil settled in the position required for the gathering.


	4. Guilty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard shows the first strains to her sanity. Escape from the gilded cage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Begin transmission**  
>  ____________________
> 
> **Vocabulary and world building aid**  
>  _to flutter (your mandibles)_ = (esp. at someone) to flirt and behave in a manner suggesting playful sexual attraction.  
>  _sweet-flutterer_ = (pej.) someone who is an outrageous flirt or extremely popular with the opposite (or same) sex.  
>  _Ostia_ = famous for housing one of the oldest C-sec training facilities for mixed academy student cohorts, Ostia is the smallest known dextro planet inhabited. Safely ensconced in the middle of turian controlled space, its economy depends on the turian and C-sec military. Used mostly as a refuelling planet for fighter and cruiser ships. 
> 
> **Assuming direct control!**
> 
> Well, here's the connundrum: it's hard to do a convincing dream/nightmare sequence, especially when your main character is an elite soldier (in space! with aliens!) trained to withstand stress in the most gruesome circumstances. With no disrespect towards soldiers experiencing PTSD, I think it's safe to assume that Shepard's experiences so far will have shaken her and left her at least a little unhinged. This fic will dabble loosely from now on with anxiety, panic attacks, stress, potential PTSD, abuse, suffering and death. 
> 
> I'm not a psychologist, but I will try my best to be faithful to these harsh circumstances of life. If you think you can not deal with this kind of literature, consider this an advanced trigger warning. I will try to be helpful and post future trigger warnings on my most sensitive chapters, but just be forewarned: we're going to get into dark places and do bad things. It **will** get worse before (if) it gets better.  
>  ______________  
>  **End transmission. Accept? (y/n)**

She stood in the arid heat of the Arizona desert, drops of sweat creeping between her thighs, running down her back in rivulets. The EVA suit's air conditioning unit let out a long whine and crackled to its death, leaving her stewing in her own juices. 

"At attention, kids! I bet you think you're hotshots, all the damn creme de la creme of your fucking dirt town units. Coming here as the big hopefuls. Well, I'm here to show you just how worthless you are. Before the week is over I will drill it into your unimaginative skulls that you're here for two things: unfucking yourselves and becoming the most exquisite cannon fodder to grace the Alliance military." the drill sergeant's neck was riddled with bulging veins, each one competing to overthrow the others in size. 

"Sir, yes, sir!" the twenty privates answered in unison, their voices thundering in the flat landscape. N1 insignias glinted on their freshly made armours, already being ruined from the inside out.

"What's the matter, grunts, ain't been eating well? Want me to call your mommies to send you some packed lunch? You there, what's your name?"

"Sir, it's Private Shepard, sir!" she answered without a trace of hesitation.

"I like you, Shepard, you lack a proper functioning brain. In fact, I'm surprised no one ever told you you're not pretty enough to be this stupid."

"Sir, they have, sir!" 

"Oh, so you're saying I don't have an imagination, is that right?" 

"Sir, no, sir!" 

To her left, Tompkins fainted, toppling to the ground in disarray.

"Shepard, you're quite the woman, making the boy swoon like that. I'm going to keep my eyes on you. Now go turn twenty laps as punishment for making me do a drill without a full complement." he cackled to her face, drops of spittle mottling her helmet’s screen.

"Sir, yes, sir!" 

The sand was mercilessly hot beneath her feet, radiating upwards toward her calves as she began her jog. Her head swam from the steadily creeping temperature that her visor kept warning of, turning from green to yellow in a matter of steps. It was an uphill battle to keep her feet moving, sheer force of stubbornness egging her on through the painful chafing her suit was causing. The air shimmied and warbled in front of her.

When she approached the end of the first lap, her feet stumbled in horror as her eyes fixed on the still corpses that had replaced her unit, all chanting her name through gaping holes where their mouths were supposed to be. Jaroslav detached himself from the squad, his body listing and gnarled with open fractures that dripped blood in the sand. Moore soon joined him with incredible speed for someone whose body was slashed from the groin up, his innards flailing around with every step. 

In a tangle of limbs, they tackled Shepard to the ground, pounding the air out of her lungs. Dozens of dismembered hands soon followed, greedily grasping and probing her body, pushing her deeper into the shifting sand as they removed her armor. 

Immobilized, her screams turned to dust, pooling in her lungs and preventing her from breathing. Jaroslav straddled her, his bloody ribs visible as he brought his burly hand to her visor and smashed the glass. His broken jaw barely hung on to his face by a piece of skin. His reptilian gray eyes began shifting through the blurry maze of her confusion, until the gore that was his face turned an ashen shade. 

Crimson red blooms spread from his forehead and down to his mouth when it began morphing, his skin hardening into plates, cheeks hollowing out to reveal teeth and his skull extending to a fringe. With a flick of his mandibles he began chittering. His talons ghosted against her waist, traveling to the exposed collarbone, to finally rest on the carotid artery. With ease he slipped two talons under her helmet, pulling it off so that their faces now stood inches apart. 

His breath smelled sulphurous and sweet as he brushed the loose red strands away from her face with a free hand, increasing the pressure on her neck. Shepard jerked under his relentless grasp. With one fluid movement he cupped her face in his hand, first moving his thumb to caress her cheek, then softly dragging his index finger over her swollen lips. He had the temperature of a raging bonfire, scorching the skin around her lips. Blisters formed and burst open wherever his touch lingered, each gust of sand an excruciating pain. The world swirled when he closed in on her face, his mouth hot and humid with saliva as he sunk his teeth into her throat.

Shepard screamed as she fell off the bed, sounding off a blood-curdling wail that reverberated throughout the entire hospital complex. Alarms began flaring from the medical equipment in tandem. Her body recoiled from the sound, desperate thoughts bulging in her confusion-addled brain. The drenched sheets bunched around her waist, snaking along her thighs in a close embrace. She struggled to untangle herself, but could not move her hands coherently enough. She merely trapped both of her feet in a twist before ripping the sheets to pieces.

Beyond her awareness, the door slid open and four unknown turians dashed in, their garb the universal tight fitting military medical uniform. But Shepard knew nothing of this, so she only screamed louder when she felt eight hands on her, fighting in vain to immobilize her. Eight exceedingly warm hands that belonged to dull, gray plated turians who pushed her limbs away and lifted her to the bed, fastening restraining straps on her. Her voice became a ragged rasp, uncoordinated and unrestrained from the howling horror that threatened to split her open.

"Sir, the alien's pulse is critical, should we sedate?" the younger turian spoke, uncertainty broadcasting through his flange.

"Negative, we know nothing about her species, we have no idea what a standard levo sedative will do to her. We have to find out the cause." the darker one with the white markings shifted his head from side to side. His omni-tool flashed around his wrist, materializing the orange control panel in his palm. 

Running diagnostics, please stand by took up the whole screen as Shepard's body was being scanned and uploaded into the tool.

"She's not in any pain, apart from the bruises and a twisted shoulder. But it's not that...it's probably an emotional reaction of some sort." the field medic was none too pleased at his discovery, forced to concede defeat so early. 

"Could have fooled me, Pel Nomos. Does she have to be so loud about it, though? I'm not sure how much my hearing canals can take this!" a third interjected, modulating his tone so as to be heard over her screams. 

“What’s going on? Why is the prisoner in distress?” Lil’s mandibles flared wide as she navigated the onslaught of curious bystanders that had gathered at the door, a corridor suddenly appearing before her. 

“I’m sure you have duties elsewhere, people, move along. There’s nothing to see here.” she turned her best professional countenance on. The crowd dispersed as though they were merely there by coincidence, each returning to their stations in orderly fashion.

“I’m glad we even have eavesdropping down to a tactful politeness.” Nomos drawled when Lil came up to him, her hands buried in the folds of her off-duty garb. One of the nurses was rummaging through the neatly stacked medicine boxes in the cabinet, hurriedly tossing aside anything that did not muster his approval. 

"Leave, all of you!" her arm drew up quickly to silence the disgruntled medical staff, but they conformed to her order. The doctor shot her one last glance as if to caution her that he'd washed his hands of the affair and its consequences. 

Lil turned her head around. Her eyes focused on Shepard, who had piped down to a bare whimper as her hands tugged at the restraints.

"I know you can understand me this time, don't even try to deny it. I'm trying to help you. If you talk to me, I’ll make sure you’re safe." her eyes darted from the heart rate monitor to Shepard. 

Shepard remained silent.

“Do you have people waiting for you back home?” she was doing her best to appear kindly, but her smile did not touch the cold glint in her eyes. 

“You violated turian space and activated dormant mass relays without permission, endangering all Council species with your recklessness. If this were any other species, the economic punishment for fumbling around the relays alone would ensure that they’d have to sell themselves wholesale to pay for it. If you work with us, we can help you.”

“No.” 

“Have it your way. You have three days to consider whether you’d like to speak to me or to an intragalactic C-sec inspector. I can’t guarantee the inspector’s patience or his willingness to go easy on the mess you made.” the words flew from her mechanically, long practiced and delivered to countless others. Lil’s wrist computer flickered on and off, an ominous red blinking.

They had mostly been civil to her so far, barring Bellator’s intrusion, but the question of what they did to their war criminals rattled her, unsure of how long, or rather short, her expected lifespan had become. She had a niggling doubt that diplomatic negotiation had no part in this equation.

“Don’t I have the right to at least contact my people, tell them that what we’re doing is illegal? Let them know that they should stop?” Shepard attempted to shift the hair away from her face and look the alien in the eyes, but the pesky strands would not yield, regardless of how many times she shook her head. It was useless to force herself out of the restraints, they might as well have been made from stellite.

“An Investigator will be with us shortly and he will guide you through the procedure for hostile illegal aliens.” 

“I will match you blow for blow, mark my words!” the room echoed with her anger and Lil stepped back, shock painted clearly on her face. “And when I catch either of you three musketeers alone, I will make sure that I’ll rip your mandibles square off your face and feed them to you in a nice stew!” 

“Glad to see you’re stable and well, then.” Lil unclenched her fists and extended her mandibles in a wry smile. “Goodbye for now. Let the orderly know if you’ve changed your mind.” 

***  
Shepard palmed the pieces of medicinal charcoal she had found, stuffing them in the minifactoring module of her wrist computer. A steady vibration shook her arm as the contraption began printing a sickly looking, yet molecularly sound diamond blade. Her clasps came undone quickly, the sudden weight lifting from her wrists feeling almost lustful in its release. She felt much better now that the fog of confusion lifted from her mind and the memory of Bellator pinning her beneath him had dimmed to an ochre shadow. Enough luxuriating in their hospitality; it was time to get out before their investigator had a chance to collect on her unwritten will. She had a duty towards the Alliance and that was the alpha and omega of her life now. 

Just as she had done earlier, when she looked at the turians gathered in the courtyard, she piled three medical crates to the window and began cutting the glass, careful to muffle the sounds. The drop would break her legs under Earth gravity, but it should leave her unscathed on this planet. However, it would still make a hell of a racket in the attempt. She decided to cling to the ledge and use what looked like the drain pipe to slide to the ground. 

With proper precautions, the guards in the tower would not notice her black under armour against the soot coloured building at night. The concrete felt hot as she used her fingers to balance herself on the ledge. 

The tower's searchlight swept through the courtyard at regular intervals and she counted, weary of opening her wristco’s screen. Using her arms for guidance, she felt along the wall with every step, careful to make as little noise while landing on the ground. A ragged breath of relief escaped when she had traversed a part of the courtyard and was safely tucked against an ancient, maple-like tree. Her boots scraped against the gravel beneath as she leapt to her next cover, a beat-up truck by the looks of it. 

Shepard froze when the sounds of two male voices drew closer to her position, chatting leisurely as they approached. Without the help of the translator, their voices were mere white noise, the sounds coming through as if they were interference on her communicator. The tarpaulin let out a screech when she scrambled in, hoping that they'd pass her without noticing. The sounds of their boots were closer now and she held her breath, taking a chance on opening the computer.

"...so then this fledgling said that he'd rather face a charging krogan instead of mating with her. Get this, at least the krogan would be gentler when they were touching their foreplates." a loud guffaw escaped the first turian, his claws scraping on the truck for emphasis.

"Kids these days, they don't know the value of a good bond mate even if they were bathed in her scent. Mine kicked my ass in every sparring ring we've ever been in, from here to the Invictus, but I still managed to trap her when she was ready for life-joining. Took some fighting, though, but I showed her I'd be more than able to protect and provide." the second one interjected, clearly pleased by his story.

"Hey, when are you off-shift? I managed to bribe Tirnovian into smuggling some ryncol in. Fresh off the supply chain. The real stuff, too, not the slosh that asari maiden is selling over at the town bar." 

"Tomorrow afternoon, I have to go pick up the new recruits coming in. Vakarian will be right pleased with himself, these babies are meant for spec ops. Bet they'll be kissing his bony ass real nice, too. Heh." the door to the truck opened, sending vibrations to the back where Shepard crouched beneath a bench in complete darkness.

"Careful there, Mycen, I can almost see you starting to like our resident sweet-flutterer. Too bad he's so far twined around Liluva's waist that you can see his head stick out between her thighs. I'd have liked to see you try to corrupt that one." another laugh, this one even louder. 

"Wouldn't wanna be him for all the eezo in the world, although I did hear that biotic babes are screamers in bed. Something about their neural pathways being much more attuned to their whole body muscles to be able to control the force of the blow. Heard it straight from an elcor who has an asari mate. Listen, fidus, I have to go before the rookies start thinking it's some super secret survival mission and scare the morickaus away from their nests." 

"Ping my omnitool tomorrow when you're free, we have an important meeting with the almighty void." 

"Will do!" his words were punctuated with a loud rumble as the motor sputtered to life, seeming every bit as tired as Shepard felt. The truck's suspension, or rather lack of, sent fresh signals of pain to her shoulder, making her grit her teeth in response. 

This was too easy by far, but she wasn't about to complain. She had a mission to complete.


	5. Sand in the pyre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard pays her respects. Garrus runs after a dangerous fugitive. Two strangers share a night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Vocabulary and worldbuilding aid**
> 
> _turian philosophy_ = although rich and diversified, turian philosophy and social customs have always veered towards what humans would call stoicism, a path of abnegation that declares that logic, honor and virtue should govern all individual members of society's actions. Turian society, from their militaristic traits, down to their communal living situations for most of their young adult lives, relies very much on negation of the individual in favour of preserving unity. 
> 
> _Age of Titans_ = In the past, turians believed that titans strode across Palaven, reaching for the heavens. They worshiped these deities and communicated with them at a structure called Temple Palaven*. Today, the _Age of Titans_ is used as a denominator for the classical era of turian culture, roughly equivalent to humans' antiquity era. 
> 
> _colony markings_ = turians use specially created semi-permanent paints on their faces to indicate which family, clan, colony, planet and / or star system they belong to. The "canvas" (the main markings) that takes central space on the face are for the planet, with increasingly smaller designs dedicated to the other categories. A clan marking would differ only slightly between the families that have the right to wear it. However, adopted members of the family do not automatically receive the right to wear the markings, but can choose to do so. 
> 
> _linia_ = turian measure of distance, roughly equivalent to half a foot or a sixth of a meter.
> 
> _Artia_ = turian goddess of war, death and the home. The triad is in no way unusual to turians, who maintain that all three concepts are intimately linked. Artia was initially a tellurian deity representing balance between nature's forces, but quickly grew in importance during the times of tribal wars. She watched over her subjects and ensured that the balance between war and peace was upheld. She is often represented with a scythe whose pommel extends in the shape of a growing tree. 
> 
> _Agrippian_ = Artia's lover and a demigod, ruler of an ancient turian warrior tribe. Jealous of Artia's growing influence on the turians, he betrayed her, murdering her as she had assumed a mortal form and descended on Palaven to broker peace between feuding tribes during the tribal wars. He disemboweled her with her own scythe, spreading her remains across the planet and sowing discord among her children. 
> 
> _cahirn_ (phonetically mispronounced)= cairn.
> 
> *copied from http://masseffect.wikia.com/wiki/Turian , first referenced in the Foundation #11 comics.

It was past evenfall when Garrus finally settled into his room and the light from the lamp cast his twisted shadow on the wall. His head throbbed, a queasy sort of ache that started at his eyes and descended into his stomach through his tightening neck. Garrus had retched up his dinner at the evening sparring session, vomiting chunks of undigested meat straight on Nim’s new track suit, which had earned a good gaggle of laughter from the other instructors. He’d excused himself in a hurry, half-limping and half-waddling back to his room, dragging himself along with his hand groping the wall. He’d have some precious hours of solitude before his bunkmate returned, which were such a rare occurrence that he’d nearly forgotten when was the last time he was well and truly alone in any space. Any other turian would have sought the comfort of their mates or bedfellow when they were sick or conflicted, but not him. He’d never felt more vulnerable than in the presence of others. 

_This Spirits-blasted pressure, it’s always there, in every commandment and rulebook written from the damned Age of Titans onwards. Be wary of the stray and lonesome turian, they are strangers to community. There is no comfort than the comfort of numbers, no love but the love of kinship, no wisdom higher than the wisdom of the group, no strength but the strength of scores. How do these people not need a moment to themselves?_

But Bell was a clanless, and Lil was a biotic outcast, so what was he? Running away from his friends, hiding in the dark, brooding over Lil’s words and disgusted with himself like a newly fringing whelp. If only he could’ve made her see how wrong it all was, how utterly mad to allow a disgraced criminal access to such an important prisoner. Why hadn’t they contacted the diplomatic corps? Why were they going so far against all C-sec and Citadel guidelines? 

Worst of all, he could not get the image of the alien out of his mind, or rather, the image of her being interrogated by that disgusting xenophobe. His nose twitched and he felt the urgent need to empty his stomach. He fell to his knees and dry-heaved over the paper bin, until his bowels settled a little and he was able to crawl to his chair and heap himself on top of the seat. The monitor blinked in the familiar pattern of a lost call, so he clicked the dial button automatically, forgetting about his desire to be alone. No one should be alone when they’re dying from the inside out. 

“Garrus, what happened to your face?.”

"Dad? Dad, I'd like to re-apply for Spectre training." his voice was hoarse, croaking like he was still finding his syrinx. Staring at him from an expanse of space is the aged face of the senior Vakarian, taking up most of the screen. In the back, two sets of traditional turian chestplates broke the monotony of the chrome-colored wall. If he were with his father back on Palaven, he’d be looking at the face of disappointment himself.

"What are you running away from, Garrus?" the elder cut through his defenses, part and parcel of his professional defects. The words were terse, but not malicious.

"I can't watch injustice being condoned and upheld like it's a virtue." a slight hesitation that Garrus hopes won't translate across the two-minute lag in the connection.

"Garrus, Garrus, it's not our lot to run from injustice, let alone cause it by having far too much power in our hands. If you're unhappy with the system, use the power you have to change the things you can." There's only a hint of admonition. 

He didn’t ask, he doesn't need to. Misery was plain on his son's usually over eager face, his face paint smudged and unrecognizable as their markings.

"It's so much easier on the Citadel, things are simple there: you uphold the laws and they reward you. Break them and they punish you. I don't know what to do with gray areas, dad, that wasn't part of my training, or my education." and for a moment Garrus looked older than his dad, his flat nose wrinkling further and his eyes half-closed. It would be so effortless to be his friend now and reassure him, but the elder Vakarian has never been one to take the road most trodden. 

"You uphold justice as it is, not as you'd like it to be. What’s troubling you?" 

The room was dark but for the light of Garrus' omnitool revealing the locker where all his worldly possessions resided: a pistol, a sniper rifle, a pair of civilian clothing and his C-sec armor. He hated his father for reflecting the shards that lay in his spirit, even as his words fell just right in the gaps between. 

"Making my actions count." a stranger with Garrus’ voice uttered, the sound distant to his ears.

"No, make them right, and then they will count." 

The alarm cut through his reply, and his father jerked his head away from the screen, reacting instinctively to the sound. His eyes returned to Garrus when he realized it was not beckoning him, but his son. 

"Do your best!" and then the link died, cut off from his papa’s side.

***  
His hand is cold on the trigger, her slender neck in his crosshairs. An escaped prisoner, a spy, and a war criminal has already been sentenced to death thrice over, but he can't gather the strength to move his finger just an inch closer to his body. She's digging, her hands already scraped raw, bleeding from a thousand cuts. A broken shovel lay discarded at her feet and a neat hole about twelve linia long and one linia deep is before her, yawning open. He’s cold in his improvised sniper’s nest. The wind buffets him, penetrating his armor and heating unit with ease. Above him, twisted branches howl and moan with each gust, the thick foliage obscuring both moons. The _serkana_ shrubs give out an eerie glow in the moonlight, their poisonous buds glistening with drops that would leave a grown turian grovelling and retching his gizzard out with only one taste. In the middle of it all, the human escape pod no longer feels strange, but more like a wounded animal waiting for an end.

His finger twitches on the trigger, once, twice, and on the third try, he sighs and turns the lever that makes it collapse in on itself. Garrus holsters the rifle and approaches her, his pistol leveled, but if she notices him, she gives no indication. He's almost upon her now, five steps removed, but she can't see him yet. The wind favors him and he can smell her scent, a heady combination of sweat and fear that jams his sinuses and sends his head spinning. She’s wiping the grime from her face in patterns that could have been colony markings, had she been a turian. When he stops she pushes on her legs, using her hands for support as she sits up to look at him. She lifts her arms up, far above her head, the moonlight illuminating her fiery hair. For a moment he wants to say something, break the morbid black hole that stood between them and stole the light. She looks like the ghost of Artia betrayed. And he is Agrippian.

"Are you going to use that?" he is startled by her words and wonders whether she heard his thoughts. 

“It depends on what you’re going to do. If you come with me peacefully, I won’t have to use it. If not, I’m afraid I’ll have to.” 

“Why are you here?” 

“Why am I here? You forget you’re the runaway, Shepard.” he growls, despite himself. He’s cold and miserable. 

Somehow, he feels she is not done with her questions. She’s never done with her questions.

“How did you know where to find me?” 

“A better question would be how you managed to find this place.” 

“I counted each turn of the road when you brought me to your base. Where are my people?” 

“We...we burned them. We couldn’t risk anything else. I’m sorry.”

He knows he should have lied, but can’t bring himself to say words that are more like balm than acid. Liluva would have known what to say to her, but his words are too harsh, always too harsh and full of truth. They hadn't known what to do with the bodies. They'd burned them on improvised pyres to minimize risk of infection from unknown contaminants. He can see in her eyes that it is not considered a dignified transition to death. He wonders what they do with their bodies. Is it possible that they are so primitive - or so rich with land - as to bury their dead? He looks to the grave she dug and finds his answer. 

Too stunned to speak, he motions to the five charred circles just behind him, in the clearing. Her left hand travels to her hip and releases the gun that she stole, throwing it to the ground, where it ricochets and lands with a harmless thud at his feet. It barely landed on the soil and already it was slick and grimed in the soft mud. It's a small wonder in itself that she was able to carry such a heavy load for her, even if she would have had the anatomy to make a turian gun work.

"I have a deal for you, turian." 

“It’s me, Garrus.” 

He takes his helmet off and the faint flicker of recognition dances across her face, to be quickly replaced by determination.

"Let me finish honoring what's left of my crew and I will do whatever you say, or want me to do." 

"Garrus Vakarian, what's your position? Any sign of the alien?" Liluva's breathless voice crackled in his ear, distorted by distance. She is doubtlessly running herself ragged, alongside as many people as the commander thought to spare in order to catch the fugitive and keep the secret. Bell was probably with her, worrying and wondering why Garrus was not at his post when the alarm rang. He couldn’t face them just yet, not with the thousand doubts roiling in his head. 

"Negative, Commander, I passed the truck on my way here but no sign of the alien. I'm pursuing footprints in the forest that lead south by south-west. Will update on progress."

"Acknowledged, we'll move in from the north to cut off her escape. Be advised that she is possibly armed and definitely dangerous." his comm link closes and he inputs coordinates for Lil, sending her on a wild goose chase ten kilometers from their position. 

“How do you honor your dead?” he presses on, holstering his pistol. 

“Not like this.” she lowers her hands and looks away from him. She passes him by and leans down, taking two boulders in her hands. 

“I’ll help you.” 

“Are you out of your mind? Why would you do that?” 

“You made a conditional surrender. I accepted it. What more reason would I need?” 

“What if I attack you? Or you catch an illness from me?” 

“I’m at least two heads taller than you, armored and equipped with guns you can’t use. But it’s not just that. Death is very important in my culture and the dead are treated with respect. So are the living, but...” he trails off, unable to continue that thought. 

“I...thanks. Is that a word that translates well?” she blurted, her eyes firmly affixed to the barrel of his gun. 

“Efkharistias.” he muttered, straining to hear her translator “Thank you? Why would you thank me? You’re in this partly because of me.”

“Did you shoot my ship and murder my team?”

“Well, no, I’m not part of the air…” 

“Did you give me the order to abandon home and family and go exploring around in unchartered space?” 

“No, but…” he grew increasingly frustrated with her questions. 

“Then you probably deserve a thank you for your efforts.”

“You’re a very odd one, did anybody ever tell you that?” 

“I don’t know what to make of you either, bud, so we’re even.” 

“Why would you want to make something of me? My leather is much too young for a good rug.” he concedes, perplexed at her bravery. To stand in front of a turian and tell him that you will make something out of his body was something so insulting that nowadays it was reserved only for old timey vids. 

She inched closer warily, her gait slow and predictable and her hands burdened by rocks. She has a different expression on her face now, lighter somehow. She starts laughing like a maniac, dropping her cargo and clutching her stomach as her shoulders and back heave with each hurried breath. He hadn’t noticed before how his armor chafes and restricts his movements. 

“Are you mocking me, human, when I’ve just offered to help you perform the rites of respect?!” he screeches, his voice startling her back to the strangeness of their situation. That seems to get to her simian brain. She stops laughing, her mouth wrinkles smoothing out into a straight line. 

“I...I don’t want to make a rug out of you. It’s...it’s a human phrase. I meant I don’t understand you. One moment I think you’re going to kill me and now you’re talking about honor and helping me.” she lowers her hands, still keeping them where he can see each movement. “I don’t know about you, Jaws, but they didn’t teach me how to interact with aliens in boot camp. I just don’t understand you.” she repeats.

“I don’t understand you either, but you can’t be that much different than I am. I think you are scared and confused and very sad about your friend Maur and your other crew. So let me help you.” 

One by one, he discards his guns, placing the heavy pistol into his helmet and stacking his collapsed sniper rifle on top. Next come his armor clasps, the front chestpiece giving way long before the back. One of the clasps is stuck. He feels the accumulated dirt of crawling through the underbrush blocking the mechanism. She watches him from a short distance, rooted to the spot. Twice she brings her hands up to hover over her stomach and twice she merely joins her fingers before letting them fall back down. Either she is trying to communicate something, or she is biding her time to strike when his hands are tangled. 

“Spirits damn this clasp. Can you...it would go much faster if you could help me. Please.” 

“Sure. Is it ok if I move behind you?” she says, her eyebrows lifting at the same time. Perhaps she means both statements as a question. This time she moves her hands with purpose, standing stiff by his side and averting her face. If she feels revulsion, it doesn’t show. “A compromise. Won’t you get in trouble with your command for helping me?” 

“I trust my superiors to be fair. Turians never get promoted to positions of responsibility unless they’re ready for it.” he shrugs his shoulders out of of the armor pieces and the rest of the armor falls off. 

“Wish I could say the same about my kind. We like to think we’re promoted on merit, but the truth of the matter is that it’s mostly nepotism. The East Bloc president’s entire family are owners of various multicorporations, the North America’s Head of State has control of all renewable energy. They dream the wars and we eat dirt in the trenches.” she sighs, worrying herself with the pieces of armor that fell on the ground, stacking them neatly on a sturdy root. She is strong, much stronger than he would have credited her. A summer rain is about to start, the fat clouds puffing up and covering Demo, the smaller moon. 

She doesn’t break her stride for even a moment, making him perform the same nonsensical task of picking up rocks and depositing them in five separate stacks next to the hole in the ground. There is a correct method of stacking that she tries to teach him, to no avail. Her slender fingers thrive where his chunky three only serve to topple the mound. Shepard calls them cahirns and smiles when he finally manages to stack the rocks better than her, forming five symmetrical miniature columns. The translator can not find an equivalent for cahirn in Palaven standard, so Garrus is left wondering what exactly it is that they’re doing. 

He feels something in his gut then, akin to uncertainty: if turians only promote based on ability and skills, why is it that he got a position on the Presidium and not in the more crime festering Zakera Ward? Why is it that Lil is not in a cabal? Or that Bell was only accepted in Spectre training after Garrus’ father put in a good word?

He shakes his hands and shoulders, as if that simple gesture would anchor him more to the present task. His leg armor creaks when he falls on his knees, picking up the shovel and directing it to the soft soil beneath, watching it eat at the ground. The thin handle fits awkwardly between his fingers, having been meant for the human's much daintier hands, but he persists, hearing her move from the charred spots to the cahirns, carrying the ashes by the handful. She doesn't even glance at him. Once or twice he catches her looking his way and shaking her head, but she does not seem to notice him much otherwise. 

Her eyes are cloudy and unfocused compared to his. He notices that he can navigate the branches and uneven terrain far better than she. Before long, they switch sides. She continues digging and he brings up ashes, scooping them up in his large hands and place them beneath the rocks, where they puff up for a second as if they wish to reform a shape long lost to them. No words are exchanged between them. When did he start thinking of his hands as too large? They were not. 

"Are there words of respect for the departed in your culture?" she finally snaps out of her self-induced hypnosis to look at him, but his words don't seem to register entirely. He stands abreast of the hole in the earth, all neatly done. His lower back aches and he knows he shouldn’t have spent so much time crouched. Turians were not made for crouching so low, but she did not seem to have problems with that. More and more she looked like a jointless puppet to him, stuffed with rags that allowed her such flexibility. 

"They are called eulogies in some cultures, prayers in others. Some humans bury their dead, although I believe Chandra would have liked to be incinerated, as was her custom." there is metal and sourness about her, the smell penetrating amongst the gentler midnight breeze.

"We didn't know what to say at their departure, so we gave them the army’s words of respect. Would you like to hear it?” 

She nods, so he clears his throat and begins.  
“Lay down your weapons, let down your guard, cast aside your sorrow. You died so that many more can live and prosper. Protector, upholder, shield of the weak and strength of the family, cleanse yourself in the fire and join the Spirits in peace. Your name will not be forgotten. You have served and died for a noble cause. We honor you, as you have honored others and as others will honor us in turn, when it is our time to go." his breath hitches and there is a reedy tone in his sub vocals, but she finally looks at him with her earth-colored eyes and he finds he cannot continue.

"Except their names will be forgotten and many more will suffer before this is over." her reproach is not directed at him, but as she takes the shovel from his hands, he begins to understand.

"I will not kill you, Shepard." each word is the scrape of a talon on bare carapace, his hands still grasping an imaginary handle.

"I've launched a communications burst that will reach the closest human relay in sixteen hours, notifying the Systems Alliance that we've contacted the aliens that have killed off our scouts and that they should refrain from activating any further mass relays. I told them you're hostile and sent out the translator code." he slaps the shovel from her hand and takes it in his, hoping she would not recoil from his touch. She merely regards him with intense curiosity, as if looking at him for the first time.

"I...trust your honor." the words feel heavy against his palate, like oily soot. “You promised me. Conditional surrender.”

With studied moves she unclasps that curious bracelet of hers and sets it in his open palm, looking at him expectantly. He fumbles with the loud device that insists on speaking continuously in that halting, consonant-laden language of hers, unsure of the meaning of her gesture.

"It won't work without my biometric readings, which is why you probably left it on me. I guess you already tried breaking into the others' wristco and decided it wasn't worth the trouble when they exploded." a mirthless cackle escapes her as the device doubles her words in a tinny Palaven standard. “I will give you the translator program if you agree to kill me.” 

For a moment he considers it, rather than let her face Eritrus, imagining that it would be an act of mercy on his part. They would believe she struggled and he had to dispatch her. Put her down like a rabid varren. But he clasps the wristco back on her, staring at her with remorse. He couldn't do that to Lil.

"No."

"Do I have to beg?"

"It isn't becoming of a true soldier. Give me the translator code and I'll make sure no further harm comes to you." 

"We both know that's a bold-faced lie, you have no power to do that. I won't speak." her hair, although clumsily tied back, eddies around her square jaw, ebbing and tiding with the gusts. 

"I give you my word of honor. Tell me who will listen to me and I will speak to them."

"Humans aren't great listeners when you point guns in their faces and destroy their manned spaceships." her hand unclasps itself from his hold, fingers moving upwards on his armour to grab his forearm. “I want to go back home, Jaws. If you won’t kill me, then help me! Please help me.”

“I can’t help a fugitive escape. It would bring shame on my whole family and those of my squad. You don’t know what you’re asking” 

“I’m asking for you to tell me where a ship is and I will never again cross your path. No one will know, no one will care. I’ll go back home and you’ll never hear from me again. I’ll make them listen to me, they have to listen, please.” she pleads. There is a moistness in her eyes that Garrus has only seen before in asari, but she blinks and it’s gone. 

Garrus feels the hotness of shame under his collar, augmented by the fact that she looks and sounds like a mewling recruit mustering from under his mother’s tunic. 

He just shakes his head and looks away. Shepard eyes him boldly, once from top to bottom and again from bottom up, as if she’s working herself up to attack him. She reconsiders, drops her shoulders and begins picking at her under armor, which is now caked in dried purple mud. 

“I’ve helped you respect your friends. You have to come with me now.” 

Distancing herself, she begins tapping away at the holographic display of her primitive omnitool. His own hums as it boots up, offering him the choice of connecting with what it recognizes as a “T’nara personal assistant”, a technology near two hundred years old. Her language is called “Standard Systems Alliance English”, far too long a name for his taste. 

"Before we go, tell me more about this galaxy and your culture. There has to be so much more than this. We should have some time before sunrise, and then you can take me back and I can hope I won’t be dead before sundown."

And he does not know where to start, but he tells her about the peaceful Galaxy he knows, about the Council and the Citadel and their intragalactic worlds. About turian history and customs, about the many more species thriving in the night sky, separated by billions of light years, but brought together by the mass relays. They light a fire that keeps them busy. His curiosity burns and he sneaks more glances at her than he should. Across the flickering flames, she does the same when she thinks he’s not looking.

At first she is stunned into silence, her breath the only sound of presence, but when he tells her of asari and Athame, the gift-giving Goddess, she perks up and remarks that it is similar to the human myth of Prometheus, the uplifter of humanity. Then it is her turn to tell a story, and he is awed by the violent, individualistic nature of humans, amazed at their fearless curiosity and boundless courage. There’s something reminiscent of turians in them. Or is it the other way around?

He goads her into telling him more about the Spartans, an emblem of her troop and wonders aloud how they did not come to conquer and unite humanity under their rule. 

"Because humans are as much a product of rationality as they are of feelings. You can’t rule humans through brutality and strength alone, we’re just as much logic-driven as feelings-driven." 

“But they were the strongest and most unyielding.” 

Her brow furrows and she massages her temples, clearly taken aback by his comment. 

He is not upset, but can not feign understanding of what she just said. Cold has started to seep through his armour and his hips are numb from their immobile posture on the ground, yet he chooses not to move. She must be feeling the chill, too, her skin no longer looks soft around her exposed arms. There are now small symmetrical ridges dotting it, the fine hair there illuminated in the moonlight. Her body is so much colder than his, he notes as they involuntarily huddle closer and stare at the dying embers.

Without a word he takes out the medi pack from his armour and begins washing the blood from her cuts, clumsily bandaging them as best he can. She allows it. The sunrise catches on the metal pod's exterior and she winces from the sudden intrusion, seemingly aware of their surroundings for the first time in hours. 

"We should go, before you will be in as much trouble as I am." her words are no longer rough to his ear. There is a small part of his mind that screams against leaving the sanctuary of the wreck and the budding understanding they had built, but she is right. They are both tired and the wounds are fresh. 

“Can I take one more look inside?” she asks, and he finds that he can’t refuse her. “I lost a medallion in the crash, I wonder if I could still find it. It had my… it had my family in it.” 

“I will come with you, if you tell me how it looks.” 

“There’s no need, the space is cramped as it is.” she answers, a bit too fast and nervous. He lets her go, watching her all the way. Minutes go by and his concern rises with them, for each second wasted, the possibility of his squad finding him here, without his armor, without his weapon, and with the fugitive walking about bold as she pleases. 

He sees her come out again with a full suit of armor and he understands. Fool he that he thought he could trust her. She steadies herself in the door of the escape pod and aims the gun at him, levelling it so that the bullet would hit his exposed belly. He hadn’t even kept his bullet vest on, the idiot, the naive, stupid idiot. 

“Garrus, get down, now!” she belts a shrill yell and his mind doesn’t register at first, but his body is quicker on the uptake. Before she’s done saying the words, his mouth is full of dirt and _perenas_ needles and she shoots. He thinks dying on his belly, like a coward, with no arms and armor on, will upset his mother and sister. His father might understand, he is much more used to the grimness of cutting a person down any way you can. When he hears the rattle of her gun, he is at peace. Bullets fly over his head and doubtless many had hit their target, as he hears the sickening crunch of bone and blood spurting. It doesn’t hurt as much as he remembers other bullet wounds, but shame is a potent analgesic. 

She is running towards him, her clumsy boots making an infernal racket, causing the ground to shake beneath him. 

“Are you alright?” 

He raises his head in stupor and peers right into her eyes. Garrus sees concern there, an emotion he would not have anticipated. 

“Did I hit you?” her voice rises and she begins shaking him, rattling his head and confusing his mind even further.

His military training once more takes hold of him and he grabs her arm, throwing her off him and sending her tumbling to the ground. She moans and grabs her shoulder, the rifle flung far out of her reach. It’s only now that he notices the molossi right behind him, stopped in mid charge. Its back is gored, with tendrils of meat flapping in the wind where the bullets hit it. The head is a mess of splattered brain and its tongue is lolling outside of a dislocated jaw. 

The curtain of confusion slowly lifts and he jumps to his feet, scrambling to reach her. He can’t tell how badly she is hurt, not when her whole body is covered by armour. He is afraid she could not withstand the force of his throw. Shepard takes her helmet off and spits a red liquid, hacking and wheezing like she has something lodged in her airway. Between coughs, she looks up at him and smiles.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pounced on you. I wanted to make it more convincing, you know? But then I saw that creature there angling to maul you.” 

“What, killing me? You were planning on escaping.” he says as he is looking her over, trying to see if she is bleeding. There’s a strange sense of detachment there, as if he is not talking about his own murder.

“Where would I go? I’m thousands, maybe billions of light years away from anything or anyone I know, my whole crew is dead and the only ship I knew how to pilot or could realistically have access to is broken to so many pieces that you could just as well make it into a museum piece. And even if it weren’t broken, it’s still an emergency pod with virtually no way of escaping planet athmo. I have nowhere to go and whether I like it or not, killing you would just have sped up my own death. I have to go back, have to, do you hear me? Whether that’s through you or any other long-faced alien, I have to get back to E-my planet.” 

Her breaths are now more regular, but she’s still lying on the ground. 

“Why did you take that gun out if not to kill me?” he grunts as he picks up the rifle she’d been holding only a moment ago and trains it on her. He doubts he could ever make the mechanism work, primitive as it is and designed for humans, but people are always more subdued when their opponent has the only gun in the arena. Only the tip of his claw fits on the trigger.

“Credibility. You think your commander would have accepted that you spent an entire night chasing a scared, hungry, injured and unarmored fugitive? I have a feeling she wouldn’t, she’s a sly little bitch with beady eyes.” she spat, the fluid more pink than red this time “Damn, you got me good. Wish I had a punch like that.” 

“We all have beady eyes. And you didn’t think to tell me before you point a gun at me?”

“Oh don’t look so coy, it doesn’t suit you. You’re not helping me out of some noble wish to make everything better in the world, you just want to go to bed tonight with your conscience thoroughly washed by what a good person you are to help this poor, unfortunate savage. I am not your damsel to save, asshole.”

He pauses for a heartbeat, two, three, and allows the steam pooling underneath his collar to fan out. His first instinct is to slam the rifle down on her head and be done with this querulous charge, bring her back by the nape of her neck and drape her on an autopsy table himself. His second voice, the one that is always so hard to follow, is telling him that her sanity has been relentlessly attacked on all sides and that he is quite possibly one link away from shattering the chain. Or far beyond that point. 

“I don’t know what a damsel is and I think I don’t want to know what an asshole is.” he chuckles, much to her confusion. “But you’re right, I don’t think I’m a good person. What I think is that if I take you back in myself, twenty other turians that don’t know you and don’t care about more than their paycheck won’t get a chance to bring back a corpse. What do you think about that?” 

“I think you and your buddies can go fuck yourself. But you’re right.”

“You’ve got a mouth on you that would rival a krogan, Shepard. If this is what humans are like, you’ll be an intragalactic hit. Need help getting up?”

“Yeah, I do. You've got a pretty thick skin.” 

“That’s my exoskeleton.”

“Are you, was that? Hmph.” 

“A joke, yes. Don’t get used to it too much, turians are shit for humor.”

His heart is heavy as he arranges the cuffs over her wrists, avoiding the freshly dressed wounds. He doesn't remember an asari ever showing so much fragility on her face, so he accepts it with gratitude. As he settles her in the back of the truck he thinks of his father and of a lifetime of being obedient.

"Commander, are you copying?"

"Garrus, where in the skies have you been? Why was your comm link off?" he knows he will have to deal with Lil.

"It was damaged while I subdued the target. I just managed to repair it." 

"Are you alright? What's your situation?" 

"Unharmed, but a bit worse for wear. Bringing in the fugitive alive, ETA two hours to base." 

"Hurry up, we have visitors arriving." 

“You heard the lady, I’m the prize pig in the fair, Jaws.”

He doesn’t understand, but he’s sure that she finds everything even harder to understand. The ride back is entirely silent.

***  
"For your part in allowing a prisoner to escape, you are demoted to an inferior citizenship tier and will be relocated to a disciplinary colony." he stands uneasy by Lil's side, fully aware of how he must look caked in dirt from his forehead down to his boots. His face paint is mostly gone, only a smidge on the left mandible still identifying him as Garrus, son of the Vakarian family of Palaven. The guards let out a collective whine, but their heads hang low in submission as her disdain scorches their plates. 

Surprisingly, she does not ask him anything as the soldiers march out of their view, turning to him almost affectionately.

"I wish I could commend your bravery, but base command will cover up her escape so we don't all end up in forced labor for the rest of our lives. Good job, Garrus. I think we underestimated her if she outran all of us almost all night. Especially you."

"It appears there is much we’ve underestimated about these primitives." he offers, noncommittal.

"Eritrus will be arriving early, apparently someone higher up at C-sec changed his orders. He's taking her to Palaven to be interrogated in the presence of the Primarch. Do you know anything about this?" ah, there it was, her predatory glint when smelling an incongruence.

"Nothing at all, although I can say I'm pleased we won't have to bury her here." 

"Bury her? Is that what they do with the dead in their species?" 

Garrus imagined flaying himself for that slip, but kept his eyes level, hands firmly clasped behind his back.

"Volus custom, picked it up from a colleague in C-sec. You know how it gets to you when you're around other species a lot, you take up their colloquialisms." her eyes searched for the tells of a lie, but whatever she found there was not convincing enough. 

"Go scrub yourself, you look like you need it. You're covered in dirt and her smell, and I can't decide which is worse. Dismissed." 

As he lay in the shower he allowed the water to pool into his cowl, bare back sliding against the ceramic wall until he let go and collapsed in on himself. Groaning, he tilted his head upward, allowing the lukewarm spray of water to wash over him, wishing for the thousandth time today that he was just a bird chirping away in the forest downstream.


	6. The battle of Trebia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard meets Investigator Arvin Eritrus. The road to Palaven is fraught with danger.
> 
> !Trigger warnings! Torture, pain, interrogation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back and in full swing! To those of you who have been patient or have lost hope, I want to say that I have almost finished this fic and will continue until everything is out. I took a long break to think about where the writing was taking me and found that I had written myself in a corner. To that end, I stripped a lot of parts I've worked on and recalibrated our course. Enjoy reading!  
>  
> 
> _Excerpt from the Guide for Military Personnel isolated from Systems Alliance Control_
> 
> _[...]Since the detainers' goals may be maximum political exploitation, S.A. military personnel who are detained must be extremely cautious of their captors in everything they say and do. In addition to asking for a S.A. representative, detainees should provide name, rank, Service number, date of birth, and the innocent circumstances leading to their detention. Further discussions should be limited to and revolve around health and welfare matters, conditions of their fellow detainees, and going home._
> 
> _Historically, the detainers have attempted to engage military captives in what may be called a "battle of wits" about seemingly innocent and useless topics as well as provocative issues. To engage any detainer in such useless, if not dangerous, dialog only enables a captor to spend more time with the detainee. The detainee should consider dealings with his or her captors as a "battle of wills;" the will to restrict discussion to those items that relate to the detainee's treatment and return home against the detainees' will to discuss irrelevant, if not dangerous, topics._
> 
>  
> 
> **Dictionary and worldbuilding references**  
>  Valluvian titan = n the past, turians believed that titans strode across Palaven, reaching for the heavens. They worshiped these deities and communicated with them at a structure called Temple Palaven (taken from Mass Effect Wikia)  
> Muted subvocals = turians have dual syrinxes which they utilise to modulate their voice in a way that transmits relevant information to turians around them as a secondary vocal signal. Compensating for a lack of an expressive face, the secondary syrinx is used to transmit both emotion and an underlining subtext to the words. In front of other species, turians may elect to mute their subvocals as a sign of respect for those that can not interpret the messages, although they can never fully cancel them out.

"Transport shuttle Parvus, you are cleared for lift-off. Navigational plans for your trip to Palaven have been uploaded to your ship VI. ETA 6 hours to Cipritine."

"Acknowledged, flight control."

The pilot closed the comm link and set the small shuttle in motion, the smoothness of the lift-off taking Shepard aback. She had asked about a safety harness or, at the very least, a seatbelt, but the two other occupants of the shuttle laughed her off, exchanging meaningful glances.

Eritrus had a face not even a mother could love, drenched as he was in the cloy stench of politics. His pores - if these dinosaurs had any - seemed designed only to ooze deceit. The way he held himself, arms clasped judiciously in front and back as straight as a satnav indicator spoke of decades of military training the likes of which could give a chamber maid a run for her money in terms of making a bed. He wasn’t as tall as other turians, she noted, but what he lacked in size, he made up for in stature. As his gaze fixed Shepard with motionless eyes, his face was guarded, a practiced blank in the space where emotions would normally dwell. She did not miss the voluntary tics he collected and espoused seemingly at random: the downward twitch of his mandible as he spoke, the subtle lift in his brow plate at times, as well as the small muscle spasm designed to draw attention to the smaller plates on the side of his neck. Each served, in turn, to accentuate the fierceness of his face, the savage glint in his eyes, the unpainted darkness of his face and hide. 

Nothing about the turian in front of her was designed to put his prisoners at ease.

He circled the small table leisurely, his strong, spindly legs exaggerated by the tightness of his civilian clothes, in sharp contrast to the padding of his tunic. It took an idiot to ignore the absent-minded way in which he dragged his naked talons along the tabletop, leaving small scratches on the metallic surface. 

"I'm amazed at your resilience, human. Others would have already asked for death, or at the very least mercy." he whispered in her ear, saccharine sweetness covering the underlying rot.

"It was denied to me twice already." she jutted her chin forward, tilting her head away to avoid the heat radiating from the proximity of his cheeks. 

"What childish imprudence. I will enjoy our conversation." 

"Not if it's a monologue, Predator." 

"Do you know what this is, primitive?" he gestured lazily towards his visor, tapping the glass with his claw. "It's designed to enhance everything I see and hear. Right now, it's telling me you're very anxious, although I could tell that without its help. What I couldn't do on my own, however, is decide which parts of your soft flesh bruise more easily than others. Luckily, your body scans indicate a lot of sensitive spots, and I assure you I'm not interested in this being pleasurable." 

"You know, you couldn’t have asked for a date without all this posturing and that shit-eating grin?" she turned her head to follow his movement as he circled her, coming to a stop only when his face was mere inches from hers. 

"What a wonderfully vulgar expression, I think I will keep it. So apt for a species as dirty and dishonorable as yours." 

"Not much choice, buddy. Apparently your kind doesn't shower, or you don't let your guests shower, at any rate." she smiled defiantly at him, eyes leveled to his hungry green gaze. 

“Immature, as well. Charming. I can see why Pel Vakarian protects you.” 

“How did you get the translator?” 

Her gut twisted as his hand darted towards her collarbone with unearthly swiftness, fingers jabbing beneath the bone and pulling hard towards the ground, sinking in her muscles. As she swung around to respond to the sudden pain, his left hand circled towards the side of her abdomen, between her ribs and hips, twisting the tender flesh until a whimper escaped her. 

“I’d like you to remember that I will be asking the questions here, creature. Name and rank, right now.” 

“Daisy Bell, of the Turian Obliteration Force.” she gasped breathlessly, fire raging through her shoulder as he raised her shackled hands above her head, twisting them back in their joints. 

“You must be enjoying this, there’s no other explanation. Name and rank.” he said in a most casual, grocery shopping tone. 

“Daisy Bell, of the…” her breath hitched, the words coming out ragged as the force of his hands twisted her injured shoulder to a position the grand architect of humanity never intended for its creation. Bile began collecting in her throat, the only thing stopping her from vomiting from the pain being the fact that she hadn’t eaten in two days. 

“Again.”

“Daisy B…” 

With ease, he balanced her interrogation chair on his two-toed boot, gently shoving it on its side. Her head connected to the metal grates on the floor with a loud thud, a blur of confusion temporarily dimming the lights in the room. As if invited by the graceless choreography, a crimson trickle began its steady dripping from her arch, jointly accompanied by the metallic taste of blood on the back of her mouth, where she’d bitten her tongue. 

“I might tire of playing nice, human. Name and rank, or else we move on to more interesting things. Like the fact that I don’t think you need quite so many digits to function.”

“Shepard.”

He seemed comfortably bored as he righted the chair once more, fixing her shackles to the table, hands splayed on the cold metal. With a delicate flourish, he tapped his talon lightly on her closed fist, gesturing for her to open her palm. When she didn’t comply, he simply chittered, the dual-tone flange sending vibrations through her chest. 

“I’m most upset that you don’t follow neither orders, nor rank. Against my better judgement, I’m going to give you a choice, Shepard of no-rank: lose your dominant arm or just your trigger finger.” he seemed to revel in her shocked expression, drinking her inexcusable slip of countenance with pure satisfaction. “Or choose none, and I take them both.” 

Slowly, she extended her palms to lay flat on the surface. He blithely slipped his talons underneath her little finger, pulling it back until he heard a loud crack, followed by a stifled grunt. Beads of sweat mingled with blood on her brow, providing a painful relief from the sight of her finger now bent out of shape. 

“I’m sorry, I lied. Not a very turian thing to do. Now, alien: name and rank. And you will address me with the proper respect.” 

“Lieutenant Shepard, petty officer of the 2nd Human Alliance fleet...sir.” 

“I’m glad we can get along. Since I believe in rewarding good behavior, I’ll let you know that Pel Vakarian has given the Hierarchy your translator, in exchange for your life. I’m afraid he said nothing of your integrity.” a brief smile graced his mirthless features, in as much as turians could smile. As it stood, his mandibles tilted away from his face and he parted his mouth plates. Shepard thought that no species should look so disgusting when smiling if there was a Creator.

By the third hour mark, Shepard had lost count of how many times she had fainted, only to be woken up by more pain. Her breaths came in ragged and shallow. The pilot had seen fit to intervene when her screaming turned to moans, no longer able to keep up the obsessive repetition of her name and rank to Eritrus’ every question. Scores of bruises and fresh wounds flourished on her body, her undersuit now damp and cloyed with blood. 

Eritrus tossed her almost lifeless body on a regeneration cot, urging her to get a good night’s rest for the big day ahead of her. She did not resist when he shoved painkillers into her mouth and forced her to swallow them by covering up her airways. She had suffered worse, she repeated fervently, she would resist. The Alliance won’t let her down. 

***

“Eritrus, what in the name of all that is honorable and just is this?” Primarch Davos boomed at the sight of Shepard, finger pointing at Eritrus’ chest. In the distance, Palaven’s harsh sun was setting over Cipritine, throwing off indifferent metallic glints on their carapaces. 

“A human, sir, as per my report.” he replied, lifting his hands up defensively. The team of doctors behind him mumbled in unison as they assessed the injured soldier, dipping into their field kit for gauze and disinfectant. With a frustrated growl, the female medical technician threw away the radiation suit she had brought after her omni-tool indicated the extent of the human’s fractures, dropping close to Shepard and whispering step-by-step indications to the motionless and only vaguely alert body. 

“I’m well aware it’s not a Valluvian titan, Investigator, I was refering to...its state” the Primarch brushed past him brusquely, turning his attention to Shepard.

“The human tried to escape from the training facility. Luckily for us, Patrol Officer Garrus Vakarian recaptured her. Unfortunately for her, she struggled.” 

“Lieutenant Shepard, can you hear me?” his voice carried kindness, subvocals muted in a sign of respect for other species. Behind him, three advisors shifted uncomfortably at the sight of the drugged-out marine’s ghastly smile. With a shake of his head, he turned to the audience before him, taking in their indecision. “I want her patched up immediately, no expenses spared and no time lost. She is to be moved to a safehouse the moment she is independent and her needs will be attended to. This is so far removed from our honour that even krogans would balk at the sight. If any more harm comes to this prisoner, I will personally make sure that the culprit is spaced. And I want to speak to you in private, Investigator. Dismissed.” 

***  
_The door is ajar, the hallway light turned on. She hears voices outside, at first hushed, then becoming increasingly urgent and shrill as the sundown shimmer of gloaming recedes into the darkness. The ray of her flashlight bobs up and down with each breath as she turns the pages of the comic book perched on top of the mess of gun parts on the table. She sticks her tongue and furrows her brow, willing herself to concentrate on the drawings before her and not Aunt Thea and Alexey’s squabble downstairs._

_“She’s almost 18, miss Remington, you can’t keep her locked up forever.” she could almost picture Alexey’s blue eyes burning with rage, his nose upturned in that involuntary tic he doesn’t know makes him so attractive._

_“I will not have my precious rose suffer more than she’s already done. I’m still her guardian and I forbid you to take her to those horrible Alliance propaganda films!” her aunt slurs the words, probably well into her liquor by now. Her neat updo is probably spotless, the very picture of a prim and proper lady...for the 21st century. Right now, she probably has her full lips pursed in that way that drives Jane mad, with a look of studied disapproval painted on her face._

_“But this is what she wants! And I believe Carmen and George would have wanted that for her, too. Look, I only brought her back here because she almost got in trouble for lying about her age to the recruitment officer. Heh, just like her dad.”_

_“Alexey Gogol, the nerve of you!” and back-and-forth and to-and-fro they both go, until Aunt Thea softens up and reaches to embrace Alexey, finding all the comfort she ever wanted in the arms of the well built Ukrainian she supposedly hates._

_She hears Alexey’s sheepish shuffle up the stairs and, before she knows it, he’s leaning on her door jamb, flicking the lights on. With half an eye, she sees his messy blond hair swaying with each movement of his head, sky-blue eyes lighting up as he notices what she’s reading. With a push, he’s ambling towards the couch, gently taking her foot down from the table and sitting next to her._

_“Hey, this is the best part! Skortax is about to go back in time through a wormhole and fix the quantum mess Arahia caused!” she snorts, completely engrossed in The Intergalactic Vengeful._

_“I thought we’d talked about this, Jane. Up until you take your exams, the only ebooks I want to see in your hands are physics, maths and computer science. We’ll make an engineer out of you yet.”_

_“C’mon, Lex, can’t I catch a break? It’s my birthday. ‘Sides, I want to be part of the Infiltration teams, Spec Ops all the way!” she turns on her best puppy eyes, oblivious to how incongruous they are on her chiseled face._

_“Your mother through and through, I’m afraid.” he throws his hands to the sky in a mockery of desperation “Now saddle up, Jane, we’ve got work to do and exams to study for. And put that tongue back in your mouth. ‘Tis a most unladylike gesture” he finishes, perfectly imitating her aunt’s haughty demeanor. She giggles, a burst of mirth clouding out the scolding she got earlier._

_As he comes closer to her, he extends his three-fingered talons to grasp her forearm, drawing her to his tough metal carapace in a warm embrace. She gasps as she pushes him away and picks up her father’s gun, swerving to point it where she assumes the creature’s heart to be. The face that stares back at her is completely confused, cerulean blue eyes blinking rapidly as his mandibles snap back to his face._

_“Shepard, I promise, no harm will come to you.” he slowly gets up from the couch, each movement painstakingly collected._

_With a sudden jolt, she feels the earth rumble beneath her feet. The alien body begins shimmering before her, the whole room turning back to unadorned slabs of gray and austere furniture._

“Sir, she’s coming to! She keeps repeating Garrus Vakarian’s name.” a disembodied voice travelled through the air, finding its way to her ears.

“No wonder, knowing what that bastard did to her!” this other one sounded disgusted and, if he’d been a human, she could swear he would’ve spit to the side.

“No...Shepard.” was all she could mumble as her image focused on two sets of beady eyes looking at her with...concern? “Wha-where am I?”


	7. The straight and narrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus has second thoughts. Betrayal in the ranks of fidus friends. A memory ensconced in a shell.
> 
> Trigger warnings! Death, discrimination and gunfighting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And because you've been so patient, you get 2 chapters in one day! This one will be heavy on dictionary and worldbuilding references, but I try to make it as easy to understand as possible. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Dictionary and worldbuilding references**
> 
>  
> 
> Pel = approximate meaning: peer, pair (French), today it is a polite address to an older male turian or someone whose citizen rank is higher than the speaker's. In a military use, it is similar to "sir". Origins date back to the prime hunting grounds that turian iudicants (regional leaders) would bestow on their pratum (a council of elders who ruled smaller governances). 
> 
> Tela = feminine version of "Pel" 
> 
> To twine someone (around hip spurs) = said of an individual who is enfatuated or enamored with someone else. Turians use their hip spurs as a natural resting place for their utility belts, therefore the saying likens the person to an oft-used, but neglected, tool. 
> 
> Decurion = old rank in the Turian military, they were elite soldiers in charge of a turma (unit), often deployed in the heat of battle and relying on a decentralised authority structure to strike remote targets, often miles ahead of the turian army. During the turian unification wars, a novel about a foolish decurion "Tertius the Runner" gained immense popularity in the rebellious colonies, poking fun at the turian hierarchy's rigid authoritarian model. "To run like a decurion" stuck as an expression signifying a futile attempt and a naive, juvenile mode of action. 
> 
> Radiation between your toes (to feel) = Because Palaven's weak magnetic field is a poor shield from its sun turians are used to wearing modified boots that have the equivalent of a Geiger counter alerting their omnitools when radiation spikes. While turians are protected against radiation by their carapaces and metal plates, they too can suffer from the effects of radiation. 
> 
> Bar'tesh = the shortest salarian curse word, it translates to "fuck". 
> 
> Fidus = apellative for a best friend, highly informal. Translated roughly to "womb-mate" 
> 
> Lectorum = roughly equivalent to a headmaster 
> 
> Novilitas = a pejorative way to address older, historied Turian families. Novil was the chronicler to the first Turian Primarch, prompting a wave of rich turian families hiring their own scribes to chronicle their family. Most of these histories have now been lost, but of the ones that survived, they provide an interesting glimpse into millenia-old turian customs. 
> 
> Labisian = negative informal. Roughly translated to "wankers", but also with the sense of "dishonorable. 
> 
> Patri = Father 
> 
> Matri = Mother 
> 
> Maris = grown man

“Name and citizen number, please” 

_...justice activist Rina T’vorak, who prefers to be called Rina’vorak vas Asiflurum, has made waves today by disrupting the intragalactic Asari diversity day, a gathering meant to celebrate their renowned ability to meld with other species._

“Go to hell, pyjak! I want to talk to my legal councillor.” Even seated and a head shorter than he was, the damn krogan was imposing and, much more frustratingly, uncooperative. 

_The Flotilla Bastards, led by T’vorak, have interrupted the speech held by Matriarch Arethia, to highlight the alleged struggles that half-quarian asari face in being recognized by the Flotilla Government and granted the right to go on their Pilgrimage._

“Sir, your legal councillor will be with you in a moment, but you still have to go through the identification protocol.”

_While the Quarian Admiralty board could not be reached for comment, we have managed to speak with a quarian captain, who wishes to remain anonymous._

“Damn turians, it’s not enough you doomed my people, you have to rub your so-called laws and regs in our faces, too?” 

_Our source mentions that, because the asari are so long-lived, even a population of as little as 100 asari would irreversibly strain the already shoestring budget that many quarian ships operate under._

“If I made the rules, you damn batrachian, I would have just given you a clean headshot when I found you dealing drugs to the sewer rats.”

_Joining us now, live on set, is Councillor hopeful, aide Tevos..._

“You’ve got a quad, boy. I like you.” 

“Name and citizen number, Kuntor Srik. I’m not in the mood today.” Garrus grunted as he typed on the terminal, frustrated by the lack of progress. His browplate twitched as he assumed the required polite tone. 

“Vakarian, Executor wants to see your bony ass. I’ll deal with Kuntor-ka here.” Dania peeked her head into the office, pearly whites shining a smug smile to the krogan underneath her tinted mauve lips. 

“Ahh, didn’t know C-sec offered these types of upgrades. Hell of a better sight than his face, that’s for certain.” 

“I’ll have you know, Kuntor, that I’m the best looking damn turian on this station. I guess you’re just not used to seeing things on the...slimmer side.” Garrus retorted, amused at Dania’s unexpected frown and quick pinch to her side. Serves her right for switching the dextro and levo stickers in the common fridge. 

“Yeah, but I don’t date outside of my chirality, turian. Gotta have some standards.” 

Dania slinked into the office, patting down her trousers to remove the imaginary wrinkles and took a seat. Kuntor Srik's whole countenance changed under Dania's attention.

He shoved his burning curiosity aside, focusing on creating a perfectly immobile face for the Executor as he strode along the narrow corridor in measured military steps. Whatever it was that had brought the higher up’s attention to a lowly Patrol Officer, it did not smell good. Steeling himself to punch the control panel, he drew in a sharp breath and squared his shoulders. 

The office was downright luxurious for a turian’s, two garish paintings adorning the walls that swept up and leaned down towards an open balcony overlooking the beautiful Presidium lake. Not glancing up from his work, the Executor motioned for him to sit in the conspicuously smaller chair in front of his desk. 

“Pel.” he said politely, stopping to stand at attention six feet from the Executor. 

“Vakarian, how is the new batch of recruits doing?” he drawled in monotone, disregarding the turian habit of speaking with full context when amongst their own. 

“Pel, I am exceedingly grateful for your permission to act as an instructor in the Academy.” he went through the exhaustive motions, displaying just the right amount of deference. 

“We’re not on Palaven, boy, put an inertial dampener on it. I only agreed to your shared time-shift because you’re skilled and professional, which is what we need the little rocks seeing. I understand there’s a higher contingent of asari and salarians in the new Spec Ops group?” the older turian’s shrewd eyes focused on the terminal in front of him, slinging the noose wide enough to have caught an elcor in it. 

“The salarian juveniles are showing great promise with the technical aspects of the job, as predicted by their scores. We’re still working on patience and stillness. The asari work too close together for my and Liluva’s liking and we’d like to break them up a bit, ease them into working alone, but they’re formidable warriors.” he replied, struggling to keep the mask firmly attached to his face. Clearly, there was something off in the smell of the room, although he couldn’t trace it back to Durant.

“Heh, we always forget that those asari maidens have had more time to train in how to kill a person than you or I have been living for.” he chuffed and relaxed a bit, lifting his face to Garrus. His mauve clan markings bore the aggressive skull-marks of the Pyrrhians. 

"I don't mean to be rude, but I'm sure you didn't call me here to ask me about the new whelps. How may I help?" He despised himself for the crooked smile that sent Durant's left mandible just a half of an inch lower, but he knew better than to let silence settle its awkward tendrils over the distance between them. 

"Quite the rumors going on about a special package delivered by a, turns out, not so former C-Sec Investigator, to Palaven. I heard them in the cafeteria this morning, fresh from a rookie." Durant made a small, dismissive gesture that required only a twitch of his shoulder, as if the very mention of the trainees was beneath his dignity, and locked eyes with Garrus, pinning him in the crossfire of twin obsidian orbs. He picked up a pencil and twisted it between his fingers. It seemed like such an anachronistic tool, but turians still swore by handwriting.

"Then I get a frantic call from the turian councillor before I get a chance to sip on some kava, followed hot on his heels by the Chief Hawk of Palaven Air forces. One screaming that this is a strictly turian matter, the other that this is no way to betray our allies and go behind their backs. Then I get this wonderful report from Liluva Varihierax, mentioning that there's nothing to stir panic, just a space probe gone awry. Now I wonder, Patrol Officer, why is your name plastered all over them and why has the Primarch of Palaven suddenly inquired about your health and, specifically, your records?" he motioned to the data pad in his hands, throwing it carelessly across the desk. 

Garrus had to scramble to catch the datapad, recognition fanning the flames of helpless anger. Lil's elegant phrases jumped accusatory at him from the screen, daring him to stomp them in the muck. 

"Sir, Liluva Varihierax, Bellator Silva and I were the first response team on the site of the crashed probe. As in the report, it contained nothing but a few fried electronics and a possible Prothean data disk that we've sent back to Palaven to be investigated." He swallowed the mounting river of saliva in his throat, striving to control his subvocals from broadcasting the truth.

"And why was this crashed space probe distinctively shaped like an escape pod? Would you know something about that?" 

"Sir...I..." 

"Vakarian, there's a reason turians are notorious for being the worst liars in the entire known Galaxy. So let's both save some face and give me the straight and narrow." Durant got up from the desk and motioned to the two chairs on the balcony, his face softening from the stoic mask of before. 

Garrus followed, straining himself to not fidget with his suddenly tightening collar. As they both sat, he sighed and willed away the mounting headache that threatened to explode through his aural canals. With a deference he didn’t have to fake, he looked at the shorter, older turian seated before him. He seemed deep in contemplation of the luscious greenery beyond them. Garrus turned his head in the same direction.

"Two weeks ago Patrol Mission Sixtus found five alien ships attempting to activate a dormant secondary relay two kilo parsecs away from Ostia. The ships did not respond to the IFF signals, so the Parsus opened fire. I was at the Outworld Academy at the time, so I don't know much of the details. An escape pod survived and crash landed on Ostia. But I saw them - her -, and they aren't just some primitives like the Sixtus' reports contend." 

"And then you did what exactly?" he raised his brow plate, nudging Garrus on. 

"We tried subduing the two combatants that emerged from the escape pod. The male died of systemic failure, probably cardiac arrest. The female was severely dehydrated and suffered a concussion in the scuffle, but we managed to capture her without incidents. We brought her back to Outerworld, decontaminated her and sealed her in the levo medbay. She...managed to translate our language and we...communicated." he could feel his neck hide burning, deep specks of blue dancing around his peripheral vision. 

"So let me tell you what happened and you can tell me if I'm right. Liluva wanted to use her as leverage for her increasingly desperate advancement schemes, so she contacted her ambassador father, who managed to overturn my order and reinstate Eritrus by promising...oh, probably rain on the Citadel or sunshine over Noveria to the Hierarch Senate. She then twined you and Bellator around her hip spurs to guard the secret so she could contact the Councillor herself and let him know what a decisive victory we’ll have over these warmongering primitives once she got the translator from you. What she didn't plan for, however, is that you have a sense of honor. When the prisoner escaped...” 

“Sir, that’s not tr…” he interjected, but was quickly reduced to silence by the unflinching stare Durant cast at his family markings. Garrus felt the acrid need for a huge stone in his hand, to throw at the annoyingly calm view and ruffle the greenery a bit. Barring that, ryncol would have done the job of steadying the nerves that caused his toes to twitch incessantly beneath the table. 

“As I was saying, when she escaped, you ran off like a decurion from base, to save her from herself, most likely. I’m actually tempted to demote miss Varihierax to maintenance just for not questioning why you were out of the base before anyone else felt the radiation between their toes, but that’s a different issue altogether. For some reason, the alien trusted you and you subdued her to within an inch of her life, or so your secret report mentions.” he said in the most serene manner, although the thrum of his subvocals spoke of heightened disgust. At that, Garrus bolted upright, his hip spur catching on the table and upending it. As the glass shattered, his voice drowned the ambient noise.

“I did no such thing! I treated the wounds she inflicted upon herself, that’s all!” his mouthplates were moving without his brain, he ruefully realised a split second after the words were uttered. 

“Ah, so there is a secret alien hidden somewhere deep in Palaven.” the Executor gave him a wan smile, revealing his perfectly sharpened teeth. “I thought we were merely discussing hypotheticals.”

“Shepard.” he said, and thought if we’re going to punch the nathak in the mouth...

“Pardon?” 

“Her name is Shepard, she’s a human.”  
****  
Dania sat slumped over a datapad at her desk, absently balancing two cups stacked by their handles on the rim of a flower pot. In front of her, Varcen eyed the display of biotics with narrowed eyes, opening and closing his mouthplates indecisively. 

"Show off!" Garrus smiled as he approached the asari, whose absent nod indicated that she was quite serious about her reading. 

"Come here for a moment, would you?" she beckoned with her five-fingered hand and Garrus was surprised when his thoughts drifted back to Shepard. Everything in his life seemed to revolve around the human now, except for the inevitability of paperwork. "I have no idea what to do with this new information." 

He accepted the datapad from Dania and was surprised to see the contents. "Charity aid? Are you serious?"

"Yes, as unlikely as it sounds, Kuntor was actually helping the duct rats. The packages are actually protein paste designed for quarians." 

"What did Liluva say about this?" 

"That it's probably meant to throw us off the scent of his real dealings. But I don't know, Garrus, he comes out clean on all counts. He even told me he'd changed and wanted to atone for his mistakes." she eyed him hopefully.

"And you believed him?" Varcen snorted and looked to Garrus with a twist of his head that clearly indicated his disbelief.

"I...yes, I did. And still do." she said, a bit flustered.

"But why label them with the hallex sigil, then?" Garrus ignored Varcen's snide comment, prompting the latter to shrug and return to his own files.

"Said those were the only boxes he had. Look, I've searched him up and down and put feelers out. Every snitch we know says he's out of the business." she stood up and sighed, the perfect picture of an asari highborn even as she slouched and jutted her hip out in a bid for comfort. Garrus reminded himself that, for all her worldliness, she was still younger than him by comparison.

"Dania, can I ask you something?" Garrus said, leading her away from prying ears. "But can it stay between us?" 

"Sure, but..." she fidgeted, taking furtive glances at Varcen. "Can I ask you something in return?"

"Um, yeah, sure. How influential is a matriarch in your government?" 

"Oh, I never figured you were interested in asari culture, Garrus. Are...other turians interested? Generally, I mean." she said, a slow indigo color creeping into her reflective blue skin. "Sorry, that didn't come out as I hoped. It's not..." 

"You should really talk to him, you know. The worst he can do is say no. And you're still one of the only people he talks to. Or grunts in their general direction." 

"I am sorry. You did not take me aside to talk about my fancies. Our style of government is...very hard to understand for other species. Where you have Primarchs deciding the fate of their colonies, we have a direct democratic process in which each individual can weigh in, although we generally defer to matriarchs. After centuries of life, we deem that they have the wisdom necessary to guide us. If this is for a case, I advise utmost respect and deference when talking to a matriarch. They see things a lot differently than we do." 

"So would a Councillor be a matriarch?" 

"Not necessarily. Some asari have wisdom beyond their years even in their maiden stage and they choose to use it to specialize in a certain field. Councillor Tanara is a matriarch, but her most likely successor, Tevos, is just shy of entering her matron phase." her keen blue eyes regarded him now with mischievous curiosity, but her demeanor was nothing short of professional. "Huh, and here I thought you were more the type that looks closer to home."

"What? I...no, no, no, Dania, you think that I, hmph..."

"Vakarian, Stegos, suit up, there's a particularly nasty spat we have to settle at Chora's Den. Silva and Forks are pinned down. Seems like a pissing contest between two merc groups went badly. We're authorized to use lethal force." Lil ran the length of the room, frantically reaching for her weapons locker.

"Shouldn't we take Dania along with us? Her biotics will give us an edge in case we need crowd control." 

"Garrus, I don't have time to babysit asari maidens. Are you questioning my orders?" she said, swiveling around sharply and glaring at him with the force of Tuchanka's sun. One of her greaves unbuckled itself and skidded across the floor, landing over Varcen's foot. Lil paid the other turian's undignified squeak of pain no mind as she retrieved it and savagely slapped it back in its rightful place.

He turned to Dania apologetically, but the asari merely shrugged. In an institution created by turians and designed according to their specifications, you had to grow a fringe to be able to participate in any SpecOps. It was a truth that grated on Garrus' nerves, but, without the rank to complain, he let it go. He knew Dania was resigned to a desk job, despite her obvious talent on the field.

"No, tela. I'll suit up immediately." 

****  
"Will somebody tell me who gives these cloacas military grade rocket launchers? No offense, Forks." Bellator's voice crackled in the comm, joined by the high pitched wails of gunfire. 

"None taken. Bar'tesh! They overloaded my pistol. Switching weapons." the salarian croaked, amidst a string of untranslatable slurs.

"Vakarian, you take point. Stegos, two meters back and away." she yelled to be heard over the din, indicating likely points of cover. The electronic music blaring from all sides added to the general cacophony of neon lights flickering in their death throes.

"Not to step on your toes, Commander, but shouldn't Sharpeyes here be assigned to snipe those damn bastards on the balconies? Oh shit, my shields are down."

"Focus fire, enemies everywhere. Go, go, go!" a woman's voice yelled, likely an asari.

"No time to argue, fidus, someone has to teach you how to shoot." Garrus said as he leapt to cover behind the insular bar, shrugging his sniper rifle into welcoming arms. For the space of three heartbeats, all of the firepower available concentrated on the new intruders, giving his visor a chance to fire up targeting algorithms. "On my mark, Bell, shoot in a 45 degree angle to your north-west. Lil, you have a clear view of a merc itching to get out of cover. Forks, drone towards the east corridor, flush him out."

"Got it, wiseass. Stegos, when I manage to pull him, get ready to fill him full of holes."

"Acknowledged, ma'am." 

"Don't let the cops get away. You know what they do to cop killers on the Citadel." 

"Mark!" Garrus yelled as he swerved to shoot the merc creeping out from the cover of a sturdy couch. "Scoped and dropped!" was the only prayer he offered the salarian whose brains painted the wall. 

"Four down, twenty more to go. Vakarian, do you have a visual on that asshole who keeps firing rockets?" Lil's unperturbed voice sang in his ears as a biotic singularity swept away two more enemies closing in on his position.

"Easy, follow the damned rockets." 

"Vakarian, that's no way to speak to your Commander!" Varcen interjected, clearly pleased with himself after taking out a turian in mismatched armour. 

"Focus, people, we're severely outnumbered here. Sacrifice shields only if necessary, you got me?" 

"My position is being exposed, can I get some suppressing fire here?" Forks' nasal exhalation bleated through the comms. Garrus keyed in his omnitool, preparing to overload the intruders' shields when he saw the salarian officer's face connect to a rocket, spraying his remains across the seedy club.

"Reinforcements in Chora's Den, we need reinforcements. Full riot gear! Engineer Forks is down!" Varcen was yelling over the general distress channel as he threw down his overheated assault rifle and unholstered his pistol, a stray bullet from the balcony strafing his shields.

They were too organized to be two rival factions. Something didn't add up. Why did their commander talk about cop killers? As Garrus vaulted over the bar and sidestepped to an alcove to avoid the shards of broken glass, he did not have time to indulge in thoughts. He had one shot at the heavy infantry that killed Forks, and he would make it count. With only a flimsy table as his cover, he settled the sniper rifle on his shoulder and took aim. One breath, he saw the asari on the balcony in his crosshairs; two breaths, her facial markings were stunning across her even features as she took aim with her rocket launcher; hold breath, exhale, she fell over a chair as the bullet exited through the back of her head. 

"Focus fire on the sniper and the soldier or neither of you gets paid." 

"Nice shot." Bellator's ragged breath came over the intercom, sounding exhausted. Garrus knew how much it drained his friend to use adrenaline rushers, but he did not see fit to open another conversation about Bell's overuse of stims.

"Ten more people left, where's the challenge?" Lil taunted the increasingly disorganized mercs, using her biotic powers to force them out of cover.

Why were they focusing on him and Bellator? It made no sense. Lil was clearly the bigger threat.

"Fidus, I see a sniper taking position on the balcony with a line of sight towards you. Sync your omni to mine, I'll overload the bastard's shields and take him out." 

A flurry of sparks accompanied the shield's whine, only to be completed by the report of a rifle hitting straight into the heart of a batarian mercenary. Garrus would have hollered, but he was quickly stunned as blue electricity started crackling around him, freezing him in stasis.

"Stegos, go clear a path for the riot gear. Give them the sit rep and get them here asap." Lil's voice filled the air with urgency and Garrus had just enough time to think that it was a bad order when his stasis gave out and he found himself scrambling for cover before his shields would crack. As the other turian rushed towards the doorway, Lil turned to him and pain started searing through his every muscle, warping his body to glass shards.

"Oh fuck, I'm blind, they have flashbang grenades. Cover your eyes." Bellator screamed in agony, the pain obvious as he careened into a pot and smashed it. 

"Bell, run. Traitor." was all he could say between breaths as he crawled to the nearest available cover, a flurry of bullets following him. 

"Round them up, I want both of them dead." Lil screamed and the mercs' gunfire ceased.

Through the confusion Bellator managed to fight free of two mercs' grasp, his omni-blade sinking into the back of one's head as the other fell prey to his talons. The world was a blur to Bellator. He launched a grenade in Lil's general direction and jumped behind Garrus' cover.

"There should be a fire exit in the corridor to our left. Book it, now, while they're still reeling from the grenade." he said as he forcefully lifted Garrus' body and shoved him bluntly towards the exit. When his nerve endings stopped screaming in agony and merely made their complaints known in triplicate, signed and stamped, Garrus turned around and provided suppressing fire, nudging his friend to take point.

"That barefaced bitch, I'll get her gizzard for this." Bellator spat, shaking his entire body as if he could simply dislodge the blinding flash.

"Not before I wipe her clan markings with acid and carve my name in her skull." Garrus growled as his assault rifle overheated. Reaching into his grenade belt, he littered their retreat with proximity mines and began cackling. "Fidus, I'm afraid this was not in my training manual, got any Spectre-candidate wisdom to spare?" 

"Sure. Make her burn for...hngh" 

"Why did you sto...oh." 

On second thought, it might not have been a good idea to throw proximity mines to cover their retreat. Not when that retreat ended with Bell's nose getting a direct sample of all the muck and grime the collected promiscuity of the place deposited on the floor. For his part, Garrus had the good grace to look surprised, if not downright horrified when both krogan warlords turned their attention to him after accommodating his friend. 

"A close quarter dance with two krogans, just a normal Tuesday night, right boys?" he tried to avoid looking at Bell's blood pooling from what had to be a skull fracture. 

Best to focus on the - sweet Artia and all the spirits - two krogan that were suddenly charging towards him. By the look in their eyes he could tell they were both in blood rage, as well as high on stims. Behind him a drone began setting off his charges, harmlessly detonating them and sputtering out, only to reappear again shortly. With barely enough time to flatten himself against the wall, he avoided their headfirst charge and settled himself defensively next to his friend. And that's when the sweet music of his assault rifle cooling off hit him, a split second after his muscle memory started to pelt the krogans' knees with as many rounds as it took. 

Heedless to pain, they charged on through his grenades before realizing they had missed their target and turning around. A bit more astute, one of them returned fire and forced Garrus to push Bellator towards a sturdier metal alloy pot, whose delicate sapling soon snapped under the hail of gunfire. He had no time to switch weapons as one of the lumbering hulks ran towards him, grabbed him by the cowl and brought his plated head down to connect with his forehead.

With pinprick precision, Bellator raised himself on his knees and slammed his pistol in the krogan's unprotected neck, discharging the entire payload until his gloves began to fizz from the heat. 

"There's nowhere to run, my fidus friends, this place is in lockdown. And Varcen may or may not have encountered some...problems along the way." Lil said, capturing them both in a barrier that severely limited their movements. "I could have made you both damn Primarchs if you'd only listened. All you had to do was listen to me. Was that so damn hard? Following an order?" 

"Hell, Lil, you know me, I was always a bad turian. And Garrus here is my best friend in the whole universe." a rough, ragged laugh erupted from Bell, as mirthless as Palaven acid rain. She did not look at him.

"I'm sorry, Garrus, I really am. I couldn’t risk you ruining it." she tittered, raising her hands to her chest and planting her feet deep in the ground. 

In the heat of the moment, neither of them realised they were holding hands, as naturally as they had when they were little fledglings playing in the desert, chasing water coriolas and frightening away baby vulpen. Nor the fact that they both squeezed in response to Lil enacting the physical mnemonics required to send them both to their maker. 

But especially not when, a second later, they were both still standing and hearing an asari's high-pitched scream as the barrier trapping them gave way.

"I will not be babysat! I am a grown woman and can handle my own battles, you undeserving [error:untranslatable]!" 

"Did she just call her a...!?"

"Yeah, didn't know she had it in her."

"Never knew you guys were an item. Congratulations." Dania grunted in between wild swings of biotic force that first staggered, then dismembered the krogan. With a startled yelp, Bellator released Garrus' hand and they both reached for their discarded weapons.

"Dania, singularity on my left, she's getting away!" Garrus regained his composure and yelled, keying another overload to explode in the field created by the asari commando. With a satisfying crunch, he saw Lil go down under the force of the blow, crawling to get to cover.

In the distance, he heard radio chatter from other C-sec officers, doubled by their heavy gear clunking and clashing on the corridor to Chora's Den. In a minute, she'd be trapped with no possibility of escape. From the cover of a door jamb, she took one last hateful look at Garrus and Bellator as Dania's amp recharged and surrounded her in a crackling aura. 

"You traitors, you'd rather be the Council's pups than serve the Hierarchy that gave you life. But I shouldn't be so surprised. You have no idea what it means to be an outcast." she spat blue and lifted herself on her elbow spurs. 

For a moment, Garrus felt pity for her, as much as he felt his own heart congealing. She was determined and tenacious even now, as she stalled them, hoping to get one more hit off her amp and make a run for it. For a moment, she was the gangly teenager he fell in love with, blue quicksilver and red on cream plates as she stood on the training grounds well past evening, working herself to exhaustion. 

And when he stepped up and crushed her hands under his heels, he could still see the frightened girl that had come crying to him and Bell when her biotics flared up during a sparring match, could still feel the touch of her warm, soft leather hands as she wrapped them around his cowl and caressed his neck hide. Still remember how he and Bell took turns sneaking snacks to her as she was "under surveillance".

"I do, Lil, and that's why I loved you, not despite, but because of who you were." the words charred his tongue and spilled like blood, soothing, but indifferent.

"Garrus, let her go, riot unit is done cleaning up. She has nowhere to go and Silva needs you." 

He felt Dania's hands wrap protectively over his shoulders and turned away from the sight before him, willing his stubborn knees to walk towards Bell's supine form.

"Come on, old friend, one last time, for old times' sake. It's just us now." he sighed and took out his medipack, searching for the bandages to wipe away the blood. 

****  
The seashell had lost much of its luster from the constant rubbing. Garrus held it gingerly between his foretalon and thumb, trying to make it catch the artificial sunlight filtering through the Kithoi Central Emergency hospital. The bodies of the fallen were sent to Zakera. He had argued in vain with the EMTs that Kithoi was too far away for the wounded. A flash of him cradling Bell’s body and yelling at the poor salarian EMT to “do something, Spirits blast you!” splashed over him. If only he could make the stupid thing shine again, as it once did. Although, better that it did not. Those iridescent glints always seemed alien to him and reminded him of his childhood. 

His keel bone hurt where the nurse had applied the local analgesic. A bright blue gash crossed his forehead beneath the expertly applied gauze. Some time ago it had begun pulsing to the beat of his heart and he realised he might actually have to take the antibiotics prescribed to him. The doctors had struggled to remove the blood constrictor he’d caked liberally over the wound caused by the krogan. With no serious problems, he was now officially cleared for light duty. It didn’t feel like much of a boon with so many of his comrades either dead or in the operating rooms, and more emergencies coming in almost each second. 

Everyone promptly forgot about him, leaving him alone in the ER waiting room. He much preferred to be a wallflower, privy to all of the motion, but with no responsibility to act. He found a seat designed for turians and nested there, picking up a datazine to pass the time until Bell got out of surgery. Nurses and doctors ran about, chaotic and efficient, clanking instruments and passing datapads amongst themselves. You probably have to be born running to be a skilled medical worker. He snickered imagining the plump asari nurse whooshing past him as a fat baby running in swaddling clothes. Next to him, the prim and proper salarian dalatrass snorted and crossed her legs, angling her body away from him. 

He turned his eyes to the cover. Mini Saressia lounged on a red leather couch in a barely-there black bikini with a jacket bejewelled with LED lights, proclaiming to the world that “Aria T’loak is an inspiration to my music.” On second look, her garish jacket lit up in a pattern that formed Omega’s sigil. He tossed the datapad back down, picking another that featured a happily bonded middle aged turian couple and offered advice about “20 ways to strengthen your bond after your children leave the nest”. The more he looked at it, the more the woman resembled Lil. He rubbed his eyes and turned towards the window, surveying the hectic afternoon traffic on the boulevard. He would have liked to go back to his shabby one-bedroom apartment, kick his boots off and turn on the vidlink.

The next datazine, Requisitions, proved to be more interesting and he chuckled at the title. “Ladies cast their vote: who is the sexiest next Spectre? A candid interview with Bellator “Bell” Silva and Saren Arterius, two of the galaxies’’ youngest Spectre candidates”. He swiped the pages until he got to the article and then began to mouth the words to himself, more to steady his own nerves than anything else:

_  
“It’s a rare perfect evening in Huntress park where, if you squint at just the right moment as the station rotates, you can see the nebula and the vast expanse of space. Bellator Silva is standing in front of me, plates glistening with sweat, wearing only his exercise pants. I see nothing of the bad-boy blasé attitude he’s famous for as he apologizes for taking longer than usual to finish his workout. A stray bullet had injured his calf a month ago and he’s taking time off to recover. I contemplate the implications of that as we sit down on a bench in the near-abandoned park. He looks deadly, determinate and charming, a lethal combination. I decide that now is my time to begin._

**You’re known for your unconventional methods and you’ve been demoted two citizenship tiers for insubordination during your time in the army, a very serious accusation in turian society. What are your feelings on that?**

We get this very bad reputation, us turians, as inflexible creatures. I know most of the jokes, like “How do you keep a turian occupied forever? You order him to count the grains of sands on Invictus, he’ll love it.”, but that’s not true most of the times. Yes, we’re very serious about authority and merit, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be innovative. My superior was right in that instance, I was right as well, it was merely a matter of whether we could save innocent lives when the eezo mine blew up or if we could catch the slavers. I did not choose lightly when I split my taskforce and pursued both targets. 

**But you could have lost both objectives.**

And you could have not gone into journalism, and the world would be worse off. You’re forced to work with what you have when you have it. If I didn’t separate my task force, either innocent civilians would die or guilty slavers would live to capture more innocent civilians and hurt them. I lost a few friends then and I will keep vigil for them until the end of my days. 

**Speaking of friends, there’s a rumour that you are in a polyamorous relationship with your childhood friend and your commanding officer. Is that true?**

He smiles a little and looks in the distance before replying:  
Nobody would ask this of an asari candidate, I’m sure. Polyamory is not such a big of a deal in their society. But I’ll bite. Turians by nature have close relationships to either gender. We live in a largely communal society since we’re 15 years old. Concepts such as privacy or personal distance have little meaning to us. To an outsider or someone who doesn’t see turians very often, some of our behaviors can be considered too intimate. But I assure you, if I’d marry anyone again, it’d be my best friend. He has an incredible waist to shoulder ratio.

**Well, that will be a disappointment to most of our readers.**

I’d take that as a challenge, if I were them.

**You’ve had a difficult childhood and you’re viewed by a lot of clanless turians as something of a hero. What inspired you to succeed?”**

He didn’t have to read on to know the answer. He still remembered the scraggly little creature that he befriended on a perfect autumn day. 

Garrus had just dropped off the final coursework for his advanced classes, so he reveled in the sunlight filtering through the clouds. It smelled like freedom. He had done well in school that year, and he entertained hopes of his father finally digging his head out of his work for long enough to teach him how to program the rudimentary VI he constructed to simulate flight paths. His hands itched with anticipation. 

He almost tripped over a turian-sized bundle lying in the middle of the path, bent over himself in a very unnatural angle. The little boy’s fringe was flattened painfully and he seemed oblivious to the world. Garrus saved himself from the fall at the last moment by clumsily hopscotching around on one foot while raising the other for balance, careful not to hit the amorphous mass blocking his path. When he stopped, he carefully tested the ground to see if it was solid enough to lay his other foot down. 

His first instinct was to use that special curse his uncle Cassius had taught him when his dad wasn’t looking. That would teach this little fledgling to block the path. He opened his mouth to modulate it, but stopped when a glint of the most beautiful colors he’d ever seen hit his eyes. He grumbled and drew up closer, not yet admitting defeat.

“If you’re looking for the other three, they’re knocked out by that cormella bush.” the mass acquired sentience and lifted its head to square his gray eyes with Garrus’.

“Other three?” he squawked, his voice breaking on the end of the question. 

“You didn’t come here to punish me? No one comes around here just to take a stroll. So where’s the Lectorum?” the boy replied, and Garrus realised that he might be older than he looks. 

“I come here all the time and I’ve never seen you around here before. This is my road home.” 

“You mind moving out of my sun?” he barked in terse, clipped tones. “Or is this your sun, too?”

“I didn’t mean it like that. Don’t be so mean!”

Garrus didn’t like the way this was going. The little boy seemed upset and his mother would give him the stink-eye if she knew that’s how he had treated someone in need. He could see her flowing tunic sleeve acquire some invisible wrinkles that she simply had to smooth down as she once more “gave him a talk”.

“It’s more yours than mine anyway, _novilita_.” the boy replied and began dragging himself towards the kerb on all fours, grunting and panting the whole way. Garrus saw that the outline of his ankle spurs sat awkwardly, as if they’d been broken a couple of times before. When he had seated himself on the stone slab, his stomach erupted in an irreverent grumble. 

“Did someone hurt you?” he gently approached and sat down on the kerb, too. It hurt his pelvic bones, but the little stranger seemed not to notice. 

The boy looked down again and refused to acknowledge Garrus any further. Half a dozen times Garrus tried to open his mouth to speak, but closed it twice as many when he realised there was nothing there to say. His fingers drummed an impatient rhythm on his thighs, three taps of his middle finger, then two taps of his index and thumb. The fledgling sure didn’t seem bothered by his staying there with him. 

“I’m sorry if someone hurt you. Do you need help getting to the infirmary? Or the Lectorum’s office?” he finally managed to speak out, surprised at himself for the grave tone that flowed past his capricious larynxes. 

“They won’t do a thing. Not to these labisians. They’ve all got clans and families, the lot of them.”

Garrus couldn’t help but feel more morose. He had wanted to use that curse word for two weeks now, waiting until just the right moment for it to have a maximum impact. And here this boy used it as if he were just brushing xemna meat from his incisors. He thought over his options, carefully considering each consequence. His patri would be proud of him, for sure. His little mandibles spread out involuntarily. 

“I’m hungry. Are you hungry? Want to come home with me and play? If you’re hurt, my matri is a big army doctor. She can put you in the regen field and you won’t feel a thing.” 

He felt so proud of himself and his kindness. He didn’t expect the little boy to start wailing. It was a terrible sight, too, a quiet type of sobbing that jolted his fragile frame and made his spindly legs shake. When his sister keened and whined, you could hear it from the top of the South Peaks, but this boy was just hiccupping and snorting. Altogether, Garrus now felt dejected. 

“I have to find the other shell. I have to. Will you help me?” his voice was high pitched and desperate, tugging on Garrus’ uniform savagely.

“I can help, but I don’t know how it looks. I’m Garrus, by the way.” 

“I’m Bellator, but I can’t show you how it looks or you’ll try to steal it, like them.” he scoffed and put his hands over his chest pocket, patting it down reverently. 

“I’m not a thief, you know. Besides, how can I find something if I don’t know how it looks?”

“You probably just want it for yourself.” 

“Hey, I said I’m not a thief, you...you...labisian!” there, he’d said it, and if the little boy named Bellator didn’t like it, he was mean anyway and deserved it. 

Bellator’s entire body tensed up, as if he’d been turned to stone. Garrus felt happy he had gotten under his skin. His cold gray eyes churned with malice. He didn’t even see the boy move, but felt Bellator’s head colliding into his stomach, knocking the both of them down onto the gravel path. He returned the favor when he slapped Bell’s head so hard his fringe flattened out in response. They tumbled around, arms and legs flailing and kicking, first the one gaining the upper hand and straddling the other, then losing the advantage and being pummeled into the ground. After a while of fighting, they both began breathing raggedly, their kicks and punches barely registering against their carapace, yet neither of them gave up. 

Garrus knew it was a dirty move, but his muscles hurt so badly that he felt justified in picking up a chunk of gravel and flinging it in Bellator’s eyes. The other boy anticipated the move and recoiled, just in time for the both of them to see a beautiful iridescent sparkle fly through the air with the rest of the pebbles, just outside of their grasp. They gazed mesmerized at it sailing along until their eyes connected and they assessed each other. It was an all out war, now, and this boy had just chosen the krogans’ side. 

Bellator bolted upright, throwing Garrus off him with incredible strength and making a run for it. Not prepared to be bested, Garrus grabbed his oddly shaped ankle spur and made him fall face-forward. As Bellator fell, his foot connected to Garrus’ mandible with a sickening crunch, while his own fall was broken by his right arm. He wailed, but held on as the other boy began hitting him with his free foot. 

Neither of them expected to be interrupted in their warring by a pair of strong turian arms lifting each a foot above the ground. 

“Garrus Servius Vakarian, what in Spirits’ name are you doing?” the older turian’s voice cut through both of their bravado, reducing them both to limp ragdolls. It was not the volume itself that had that effect on them, as the turian spoke very calmly, it was the particular inflexion that overflowed authority. It was the silent kind of anger, the one where you don’t want to be its target.

There was only one turian that sent splinters of ice down his carapace when he spoke, and he prayed to all of the Gods, titans, spirits and even goddesses that just this one time, just this time, it wouldn’t be his dad.

“Hello, dad.” he slowly, painfully and politely modulated his tone, looking into his father’s eyes, as he knew he should. His left mandible hurt as he lowered it to speak, a sharp pain followed by dull throbbing. Bellator did not say anything, but Garrus didn’t expect politeness out of a rude boy such as him. 

“Hello, son. Hello there, little boy.” he eased Garrus and Bell down, but still kept a firm hand on their carapaces. 

“I’m not a little boy, you old croak! I’m a grown maris!” the boy spat and hissed at his dad. 

“You don’t get treated like a maris if you don’t act like one, little boy.” he shook his head and tut-tut-tutted at both of them before focusing on Bellator. Garrus wanted to die right then and there, if it would save him from the long months of chores ahead. “Where are your matri and patri?”

“I don’t have any.” the boy glared at him and indicated his chest insignia. Garrus didn’t know what to look for there, but he saw the weirdest thing ever: his father’s face softened immediately, as if a bucket of cold water had doused a raging fire. He’d never seen that before. He resented the little boy for this nugget of power. 

“Garrus, into the skycar, now.”

Garrus obeyed instantly, hoping that he could convince his patri he was only trying to help. It would be nigh impossible, but he owed it to himself to be honorable. He tried climbing into the front seat, but his dad’s reprimanding look saw him crawling into the back. From the tinted windows, he saw Bellator first struggling with his dad’s firm grasp, then squirming as hard as he could, until finally his dad said something and he froze, rooted to the spot. Garrus couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but if anyone could convince anyone of anything, it was his dad. He wished they would hurry up, he couldn’t feel part of his face anymore. He knew from his matri that that meant it would take a lot of time to heal. 

Years down the road, at Bellator’s acceptance into his wife’s clan, he finally confided what it was that Garrus’ dad told him. 

“As a clanless, you either turn into the talons that oppress, or the shield that protects.” 

Garrus pulled out a holo he’d been keeping religiously through tens of software updates and dozens of omnitool changes. They were both ten years old, but you couldn’t tell in the pictures they took. Bell was a head shorter, with stubby arms and a crooked fringe, a sharp contrast to Garrus’ limber, athletic physique. There, on the right, was the little boy who said that he’ll always protect those who can’t do it themselves. In the process, he had completely forgotten how to protect himself. 

The dalatrass seated next to him inched closer to steal a glance, her manner considerably softened.

"Is that your brother?"

"Yes, honored, he's my brother in all but blood." 

"Is he in the hospital, too?” she murmured, a pale undertone of grief beneath it.

“I think he’ll make it. Can’t say the same for a lot of my colleagues.” he replied awkwardly, only now noticing she was wearing the three-pronged reeds on her chest. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Life is short and full of sorrow for salarians, you don’t have to apologize. I’m sorry I was rude to you earlier, when you sat down. I thought you were a hooligan. My son...he was very good with other species. He got along so well with his C-sec colleagues.” she broke down sobbing, her long, elegant fingers curling into fists against her face. Garrus moved to embrace her, ignoring the pain shooting through his chest. The dalatrass leaned in, but did not return the embrace.

“I’m sorry, was your son by any chance Barton Forks?”

She nodded in between hiccups. 

“He was a fine soldier and an excellent comrade. He saved our lives back there. I hope you’ll allow me to pay my respects if you hold a token funeral on the Citadel.” he stopped and corrected himself. “I’m sorry, my translator glitched. I meant a farewell voyage. My name’s Garrus Vakarian, eldest son of Heros Vakarian of Palaven.” 

“I’ll spare you the tedium of my whole clan name, unless you want to be here until tomorrow morning.” she chuckled weakly, then added. “Just call me Valar. It’s...it’s been good meeting you. Barton loved his job so much, but I was so angry I just shut down the turian C-sec lieutenant that came here to talk to me about honors for his funeral. He was so ignorant. My son will not enrich the soil of a space station.”

“I’m really sorry. Most turians don’t know enough about salarian burial customs. It’s...not a regular occurrence.” 

“I’ve always envied you long-lived species, you know. You always have so much time at your disposal. We’re like the blink of a solar day compared to you.”

“Sometimes, it’s just too much time. We end up wasting it.” he found himself saying, his mind wandering to Lil and her whereabouts. The dalatrass seemed to understand immediately, offering him the space he needed. He shook his head and banished the thoughts, turning to his omni-tool. “I’d be happy to send pictures of your son, if you’d like, although most of them are group shots of us. And some might not be...ugh...parent-friendly.”

“You do that, please. And live well, Garrus Vakarian.” 

***  
"Pel Vakarian?" the pristine nurse motioned towards him, leading him into the privacy of an alcove. He said his goodbyes to the dalatrass and almost ran the length of the room.

"How is he?" 

"He's one hell of a soldier, he'll make it out alright. I'd say it's a miracle he survived, he was so high on the stimulants he had in his armor's adrenaline pack that he only responded to touch when I dug my nails in his forearm."

"And I'm betting that even then, it was to ask you out." he couldn't help the smirk that escaped him. Bell would probably survive the apocalypse if there was one woman around that wasn't a krogan.

Flustered, the asari giggled and averted her eyes. "Well, I had to explain to him that I'm still way too early in my maiden years to think about dating. And that it wouldn't be right with his mate waiting for him outside." 

"Thank you for all you've done. Wait, his what now?"

"Umm...he has you registered as his next of kin, under mate."

He couldn't suppress the warm giggle that escaped his throat, although, judging by the nurse's highly professional, but uncomfortable reaction, she thought it was highly intimidating. 

"May I see my beautiful mate?" he edged closer to her in a conspiratorial manner, prompting the asari to take a step back.

"Of course, but not for long, he's still recovering." she said as she half skittered and half ran away from him.

The room smelled like freshly applied gauze and antiseptics, with the light from the immense windows creating a strange effect as it filtered through the immaculate white curtains. It felt like walking into a dream, a half-remembered glimpse of times long past. The pain dulled until it felt like nothing more than a phantom limb, as if his body knew, logically, that there was a missing finger, but couldn’t help but flex it. 

***** 

"Target is leaving her apartment heading towards the Presidium grounds." 

"Roger that, prepare ambush." 

"Negative, target is hot. Two turian C-sec officers and an asari commando with her. Ohh, so that's the super secret job Carthen and Liria were assigned to. Heehee" 

"Dammit, focus. Does this woman ever go anywhere unaccompanied?" 

"I told you to set up an appointment." 

"Can it, Dania, the next available slot is in seven months!"

"Well maybe I wouldn't be so annoying if you told me why you're stalking Tevos in the first place. I thought your interest in asari was a bit less on the creepy side." 

"Well, maybe if you hadn't poisoned half the squad with your little stunt you wouldn't have owed me one."

"Hey, it was an honest joke. All dextro food tastes like sugar to me." 

Garrus sighed and dropped the binoculars, trudging down the stairs to the elegant fountain ahead of him.

"Abandon mission and meet at Sherkesh's. I'll come clean with you if you promise to not breathe a word."

***  
"A what?! Are you serious? But that's...that's betraying the Treaty." her already immense eyes magnified twofold and her lush mauve lips were gaping open. Some of the customers at the other tables turned towards them, waving their head in disapproval. They were already far too conspicuous amidst a sea of salarians.

"Will you keep it down!?" Garrus moved his talons to cover her mouth, barely conscious of the fact that his hand was almost the size of her entire face.

"Is there a problem, ma'am?" the salarian waiter materialized out of thin air, giving Garrus pointedly dissatisfied looks.

"Mmo, hhhh." 

"Excuse me?" 

Garrus swiftly let go of his hold on Dania's face and she straightened up, leveling her best professional gaze at the waiter. "I said no, sir, heh. May I have another asari temple?" 

"Certainly." he enunciated every syllable with disdain, but sauntered off nonetheless.

"Why didn't you tell me in the first place, you...you...oh, never mind." 

"I need to see Tevos. I'd never get admitted to the Council and she's quite literally my last hope." 

"Garrus, this is huge. It could seriously break the Council equilibrium if people found out the turians are holding out. And worse, that they're attacking a primitive non-contacted species." she seemed to be mulling the thought, tasting it at the back of her teeth. "But you're in luck. That asari commando I told you about? We were really good friends back when we both served in Eclipse." 

"You served in Eclipse?" 

"Trust a male member of any species to focus on the lesser parts...yes, I was and no, it's not some orgy hive." she screwed her nose up in the same way he had seen Shepard do when she was displeased, which was a lot of the time when they were in proximity. 

"No, I just meant...eh, you were always so...proper." he stumbled, feeling the awkwardness envelop the space. 

"Vakarian, you turians are horrible liars." she smirked and turned her attention fully to her omnitool, scanning her impressively long list of contacts. With a satisfied hum, she placed one arm on the table and lifted the other to her ear. 

"Sorina, hi! Yeah, it's me! How have you been? By the Goddess, that's incredible news! Oh, he's a drell? That's wonderful, I'm so happy for you! Uh-huh, uh-huh, noo, you don't say. Oh, but that's terrible! The poor guy. Oh, my, really? Oh, you know, got tired of the life, same as you, so I'm a C-Sec officer now. No, come on, I never had a thing for turians. Goddess, Sorina, that Blue Suns guy was just...shore leave. Yes, I still keep in contact with him. He's got a wonderful mate and two children. Going on 75 now. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yeah, well, there is one guy...yes, he's a turian...no, stop it." 

Garrus graduated from fidgeting to tracing each individual strand of the tablecloth, to tugging at his mandible spurs absentmindedly, back to fidgeting and finally to rolling his eyes at Dania, who droned away without even so much as registering his presence. Dejected, he opened up a report and began filing away overdue paperwork, of which there was never any shortage. He made it a point to not make eye contact with any of the other patrons, who had begun murmuring their displeasure at the amount of constant noise coming from their table. 

"Uh-huh, sure, see you at Vestala in an hour." 

"You sure you still have things to talk to her about?" he growled, glowering at the oh-so-innocent display of confusion.

"Of course, we haven't spoken to each other in a century!" 

She was genuinely puzzled. Then indignant when he couldn't stop laughing. Then suddenly bashful when the waiter came uninvited with their check and a recommendation that they take it elsewhere. 

"Meet me in Zakera ward, by the Hahne-Kedar kiosk after your shift. I can't guarantee anything, but Sorina still owes me quite a bit of favors." she directed him towards the exit, grabbing his arm before she let go and wandered off into the crowd of bypassers. 

Not knowing what else to do, he opened up his omni-tool and began calibrating his patrol route. He had a full night ahead of separating drunken brawls, fining luxury brothels and sending intoxicated lovers out of the Presidium commons.


	8. A deal written in blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard is interrogated. Arvin Eritrus gets entangled in the human's fate. The thousand year peace is broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who showed support for this fic, whether through commenting, bookmarking, kudos, sharing, what have you. I didn't expect this warm a welcome after I'd been idle for so long. While I love the Mass Effect universe and the games, you're the reason I return and keep writing. All my heart goes out to you <3 
> 
> This week there will be no worldbuilding and dictionary references, everything seems clear enough from the text. Enjoy some reference-free binge reading :)

"Blood pressure stabilizing, vital signs normal, but, sir, she's still critical. She won't eat, so we've given her some glucose to tide her over and sedated her to stay still in the regen field." the concerned doctor flicked her mandibles, her elegant neck swaying side to side in a despondent sweep. Through the weak vid link, it merely appeared as a jerky movement.

"Have you tried force feeding her?" Eritrus replied, wincing at the realization that he spoke before the Primarch.

"No success, she's worse than a xemna in that regard. Took four people to subdue her once the shock wore off and we only managed to aggravate her broken ribs. At least, this way, the regen field can work."

"How long until she can get out of the field?" Davos' concern for the alien was too obvious, his neck hide twitching under the pressure of controlling his voice. Such an easy tell.

A weakling through and through, that one, but he is merely a symptom of a much larger disease spreading amongst turians. 

"Three days, at the least. Might be more than that. What should we do with her once she wakes up?"

"Has she talked to anyone since arriving?" 

"No, sir, she only uses gestures for when she's thirsty. Judging by her muscular tone and adipose deposits, she's a fine specimen of her species, but she's clearly supposed to eat solid food. Her psychological and physical responses are indicative of a highly trained soldier. Chief Hawk Vakarian can fill you in on the emergency risk reports on their species, but, from a purely medical perspective, her kind are very genetically diverse. A shame they disposed of the rest of the bodies."

"Thank you, Hadia, that is stellar work you and your team have done. One she's recovered, transfer her to the safehouse and make sure no further harm comes to her. Make our guest feel welcome and...as inconspicuous as possible." he added, as if it were just an afterthought. Eritrus smirked, but the doctor seemed as if she'd burst at the seams with admiration before her image flickered and darkness overtook the console. 

"Fine mess we're in, Investigator." the last word was emphasized, ground out like an insult.

"In great challenges lies opportunity, Primarch. Their species could make a great client to ours. They're militarized to a degree, seem aggressive if this specimen is to be believed, and have good tactical sense." 

"So were the krogan. If you excuse me, I have a meeting with my advisors in short order." he said, his eyes shifting towards the door.

"Permission to speak plainly, sir?" 

"Granted. But make it short." 

"It would be a callous waste if we did not think this through. If we conquer them and make them a client race, we will no longer have to serve a tertiary role in the Council. We could be the true leaders and uplifters to them, just as the salarians did for the krogan." 

"And look where that uplifting landed us. No, I'd like to think we are neither so ruthless, nor so naive as to think that's a true possibility, Investigator." 

Seeing the curt dismissal and understanding it for what it was, Eritrus clamped his jaws shut, saluted swiftly and turned towards the exit with a professional grace that hid the burning in his throat. The door panels slid in front of him, revealing the brightly lit metallic corridors bustling with political life. His blood began to trickle again, slowly at first, then with a flood of recognition as he glided his eyes to take in the view.

There was advisor Sparatus, his son eagerly yapping at his side about boot camp, no doubt, and there was Velia, chatting with a volus, her face ensconced in a baffling new fashion that was loose around her slim waist, yet exaggerated her cowl in a display of mock-masculinity. He heard more than saw Corporate Official Beru Vin, with his short grubby claws and heavily accented breathing. The politicians, the lobbyists, the military, the racketeers, all huddled in the waiting room, basking in the legitimacy of the power hidden just behind the doorway. He suspected their world would be upended if they ever realised that the true seat of power was not in that dusty room behind him, but out here, where treaties and trades were struck simply because the person next to you has been waiting for just as long as you have. 

And then there was Varihierax, a silhouette bathed in copper on the balcony. To most fools, the ambassador husband was the epitome of power in that family, disregarding the gale force that was Nelina, the Chief Legal Advisor to most volus corporations. Too many turians despised mercantilism and looked down upon the merchant ranks, yet rarely, if ever, did anyone dare slight Nelina. For those that did, it was a once in a lifetime opportunity. She was tall for a female, almost as tall as Arvin, and she used that to her advantage, dressing in tight-fitting dark pants and tunics, with multi-hued metallic vests overlaid for volume. Her hip spurs were covered by a red sash that trailed along her legs, stopping just above her ankle spurs on each end. 

As she stood in the light, her vest reflected the sun’s glow, giving her an almost ethereal appearance and enhancing her soft, cream-colored plating. The husband might hold diplomacy and the Primarch might hold legitimacy, but she held the economy twined between her hip spurs. 

"Well, look who clawed back up in the ranks. Far too busy for a holo-call, Arvin?" her vest tail swerved as she did, revealing a streamlined waist, no doubt artificially enhanced. 

"I'm fond of pleasantries, as you know me." he smiled as he approached her, taking in his surroundings. "The winds come from the east this time of year, or are the South Peaks in the way?" he replied, dragging his talons lazily across the balustrade, reveling in the stone's warm touch. It would have to do for now.

"The South Peaks are always in the way, but a clever hawk knows how to take advantage of the wind." 

"Let's hope, then, that the Nizaris wind shall be kind." he replied leisurely, all the while scanning his surroundings. 

"You never cease to impress me with your paranoia." she guffawed, a trickle of rain on sunburned soil. 

Message incoming from Private caller ID. his omnitool informed him. With a reverential bow of his head, he excused himself and wandered off into the ambient glow of copper tinged windows on the sterile corridors. Nelina returned to her contemplation, waiting to be approached by the next suit rat with an interest in turian economy, no doubt. 

***

"You have a choice, Shepard, and it will decide the fate of your whole species. Stay silent and live for the rest of your life in a safehouse, away from your kind, or give us information and help your species." The turian in the garish red blue jacket kept a strained, yet amiable distance. By the look of it, he was probably pretty high up in their little nest.

"Either choice would be betrayal to all humans. I refuse them. If you stick me in this safehouse, I will escape. If you torture me again...well, that won’t do you any good." she said, cringing at the the frailty of her voice. She felt ill at ease in their clothes, too tight along the waist and not tight enough around her shoulders. Her own had probably been spaced long time ago.

"You must make a choice and those are your options." this time the tawny one with the comically large mandibles spoke. Shepard wondered whether that particular trait meant that he was more desirable or handsome amongst his own kind. As it stood, she wondered whether he could even chew his food.

Shepard leaned forward in her chair, staring at the chasm separating her and these official-looking dinosaurs. The preparations for the interrogation were impressive: two freakishly tall guards looming behind her, an immense sterile container encasing her (oh, but how thoughtful of them to provide a chair in that bubble), and a metallic table about the size of Sirta foundation’s board room. All of these in a dark, damp room devoid of decorations. Real homely.

She remained obstinately silent.

“Why are you attacking turian vessels?” the garishly dressed one spoke, attempting a good cop turnaround.

“You’re attacking us.” 

“Why are you activating dormant mass relays?” he continued, nonplussed.

“To travel through them.” 

"Why?" 

“To travel is to live." she exhaled softly, looking straight past her captors. "You might have me trapped here, but there are billions more that will resist any form of aggression you plan. And they know." a short pause as she chewed her lip, focusing on the walls of her sterile bubble. "They know and they will not lay down their weapons. Expect a fight the likes of which your species may not be prepared for, turians." 

“Take her back, we’re done here.” the other signalled the guards, both of whom reacted in perfect coordination. It felt familiar seeing them act as a unit, much like Garrus and Bellator did. 

As she walked through the corridors, she couldn’t help but notice that one of the guards purposely tried to avoid touching her, while the other stood almost too close for comfort. Though they both wore the exact same uniform and were of almost the same height, their markings were an easy indicator of their different colonies. At least, that’s what Garrus said about their face paints. They reminded her of Maori moko. 

At length, they stopped in front of one of the interchangeable doors and the one closest to her spoke. 

“Mi’rik, go take a break, I’ll handle the inmate processing. You look like varren shit.” 

“Can’t do that, Farius, procedures are clear.” 

"You've been running on stims for too long, you need some rest." 

"What I need is to get away from this human. Who knows how many diseases she carries?" he said and cast a disgusted look at Shepard. She did not respond.

"Cut you a deal: you finish the paperwork, I'll take her through decon and purge her belongings. She's scheduled for a checkup with the doc soon." 

As the other mumbled his assent, Farius jabbed Shepard in the ribs, pushing her through the biometric scanners and down the corridor to the appropriate room. Once inside, he scanned the room, quite obviously checking for cameras. Whether out of concern for privacy or because the chemicals most likely destroyed the cameras, there were none.

"We don't have much time, so I need you to answer some quick questions." his flanging voice was unusually high pitched, perhaps as a signal of discomfort. When she moved to protest, he just raised his hands to stop her. "No time. Did Garrus hurt you?"

"No, he didn't."

"Who did?" he pressed on and she wished she could speak. Her silence seemed to convince him of something.

"I see. Are you alright now?" 

"Do you expect an honest answer?" 

"Fair enough." 

His eyes skittered uncontrollably as he paced the room. A bird of pray, cornered. 

"I'm sorry for my own kind. We treat krogan mass-murderers with more consideration. But I’m babbling. Check inside the tunic’s inner pocket, there’s something that you need there.” he said. 

His features had returned to the impregnable fortress of before, his mandibles no longer twitching sideways with each step. Shepard was not yet convinced the man - pardon, turian - wasn’t two yens short of a euro, but she decided to play along. He knew something. And she needed information.

"Why would you help me?" she stalled, diving her small hand in the vast space of the turian tunic's pockets. At first she found nothing, but kept searching. Farius looked on with a mixture of concern and amusement. 

"I owe Garrus a couple of favors and they're trying to frame him as a sadist. The inspector probably has an agenda, but I wouldn't know. Spirits, how can you work with so many digits?" 

"Aha!" 

At first it felt just like the pocket's inner lining, but as she pulled it to light, she felt a small measure of satisfaction. 

"I don't know the use of that thing, but I was assured it's safe. Said he couldn't get yours out of evidence, but quarians have these, too. I thought it was for their suits. I'm babbling again, nervous habit. Sorry." 

She smiled at him and raised her hands to her hair, parting the strands in three sections. With deft hands, she began a braid, using the headband to tie it. Farius seemed at once fascinated and repulsed with the proceedings.

"It's...thank you. I don't know how to call you. Your species seems big on formalism." 

"Just Farius is fine. I can't help you more, but watch out for yourself. Take the plea, go live in a safehouse. They're cities like any other. I don't know what happened between the two of you, but Garrus is very concerned with your wellbeing." 

"Thank you, Farius. You're the first person that's been kind to me since I last saw Garrus. How is he?" 

"He’s in a whole lot of trouble. But I can’t tell you more. May the Titans pave the way for your steps. We have to go." 

She reluctantly stripped and passed through decontamination, reaching for the new set of clothes on the edge of the adjacent desk. 

"Asari threads, they're much more similar to your body type." he said as they exited the decon chamber and returned to processing, where Mi'rik had fallen asleep at his console, paperwork neatly filed away in the outgoing stack. What Farius forgot to mention is that each damn alien in this galaxy seemed to be a whole lot thinner than humans, judging by the unnatural angles at which the clothes bunched. 

"Private, time to go!" Farius said evenly, the implications of his subvocals lost on Shepard. 

"Why didn't we give her to the salarians? They love this creepy kind of shit." the other mumbled as he got up and let the way through the nondescript corridors. 

As the two men bantered back and forth, Shepard looked up at the vaulted ceiling and wondered what color the sky was on Garrus' planet. And why it suddenly mattered to her.

******  
The hotel room was unusually damp for this district, further proving that the owners siphoned more than their fair share of humidifiers from Cipritine's power plant. It was unnatural, but he basked in the small creature comfort nonetheless. Besides him, Nelina stirred, a tangled mass of sinewy muscles. Her waist was exposed, the bare midriff arousing in him the memory of their shared hunger. He turned away from her to look at the sunset. Maybe this time it'll be a boy, strong and defiant as he never was.

"Arvin, what's the matter?" 

"One of these days, Lina, I won't be able to protect you anymore." 

"You did just fine when those salarians threatened to expose our chapter." she whispered, reaching with her arm to the back of his fringe and stroking gently with her talons.

"The Primarch won't listen to reason. He's too much of a xeno apologist." 

"You know full well he can't, and neither can I. Spirits, the Empire is crumbling around us and has been ever since we fell in with the asari. Do you know how many humans there are?" 

He sat up from the bed and strolled to the communicator, the orange light glowing sickly on his face. 

"Hard to guess. So far we've only neutralized scouts and some minor patrols, but I'm willing to bet they have at least some colonies. Their tech is primitive, but shows great potential for advancement." he glanced back, looking at her as she leisurely strapped the waist cinch back in place. How her husband could stay away from her, he'd never know. Her waist was a bit thicker now, especially after bearing him two children, but her charm and sharp wit had never dwindled. If anything, they had become stronger with each passing year, much like arginta wood.

"Facinus could use their strength, if we recruit them. We could overturn this whole mess of a Primacy and finally give the Empire the glory it was meant to have." 

He considered that, mulling the thought in his head until it boiled over. If Davos could not see the merit in making the humans a client species, he would try destroying their race entirely, as was turian custom. In the process, if Shepard was any indication, he would be destroying the turian race, as well. Who knows what her species were capable of in great numbers.

"And how do you propose we get them on our side? I couldn't get the human to speak, not even on her deathbed." 

"Arvin, because of your failure, I just ordered my daughter to swallow the cyanide pill. And Vakarian and his damned clanless friend are still alive. If you even so much as try to tell me you are losing steel, I will have your head." she said coolly, meeting his gaze. "I don't care what it takes, as long as we're no longer the slaves of the Citadel." 

The pit of his gizzard churned as if it were preparing to expel all of its contents. 

"And you thought to tell me this now?! Our daughter, ours, not just yours! You sacrificed our daughter and all you can say is that...that..." it was no use, no use at all. He choked, spat and fell to a fit of coughing.

"Keep your voice down and control your emotions!" she strode towards him, taking his listless form in her arms, against his weak protests. "You knew what we were getting into, don't lose sight of the reward. When this is all over, we can finally be together and I promise I'll give you an entire clawball team of children that you can hold and shower with love. We're fighting for them, only for them."

He let his head rest on her shoulders, caring not a whit for the proper customs. Nelina let him, until he was fully inert and staring lethargically out the open window. 

“Tomorrow morning you will participate in that war meeting and we will come up with a plan. The colony chapters are waiting for the signal, so be careful and keep your ears open. It's going to be a glorious war, alma." 

"That it must, alma, that it must." 

****

There was a heedy sense of anticipation governing the circularia, a strong current of lust suffusing the collective presence of all the advisors, admirals, generals and even the colony Primarchs waiting, biding their time for blood. A civilization of war nerds, the collective species called them derisively, ignoring the very real undercurrent of atavism and steel. Their Spirits demanded carnage and gore, and turians were more than happy to grant them that wish after a thousand years of peace. The Vol-clan on the side stirred, all the more uncomfortable for knowing this.

In the centre of all this, Eritrus felt trapped, the image of his beloved daughter writhing in her death throes alone burned on his retina. It was a strict formality that he was on the Primarch's right hand side as the guest of honor in the primary circle, facing the Galaxy map. The rest of the Primarchs joining through holo comm and their councillors in the secondary circle smelled that and displayed their haughtiness all the more obviously. Behind him, sitting in the tertiary military circle, Chief Hawk Vakarian, along with General Mespis and the Chief of NCO bore a hole through his skull, making his gizzard churn with the intensity of a rancid supernova. Behind them still and to the right, right beneath the immense amber tinted windows, sat Corporate Official Beru Vin and the rest of the suit rats with their grubby claws.

"With the power I have as Primarch of the home world and first in the Hierarchy, I welcome you to this war summit. You have all received the reports. We are gathered here to decide how to respond to the aggression of this new species. They have recklessly endangered the entire galactic community by activating dormant mass relays and thus putting us at risk of encountering another hostile species. I declare the proceedings open. May the first speaker take the podium." 

Murmurs of assent overtook the crowd, all hurrying to push the button that would give them the honor of speaking first. In the end, it was the Primarch of Ceres who took the floor, his distended abdomen at odds with his rigorous military stance. 

"I fail to see, distinguished pels, how this is our problem. The humans violated galactic law, C-Sec patrol has prevented that. Why do we not defer this to our asari allies?" he sputtered at the end, his voice hoarse and cracking from old age.

"But they have invaded turian territory! Surely that's a declaration of war. You wouldn't wait until they brought their full fleet to bear on our home worlds, would you?" a younger Primarch of an influential research colony spoke, disregarding the order of speakers and earning frowns from the crowd. His planet was too close to the conflict, that much was easy to understand. Despite their distaste at the loss of decorum, more turians green lighted his opinion than the old man's.

"Vernix, that would be punishing a child for breaking his toy by murdering his family. They seem to have barely discovered mass effect fields, which puts them hundreds of years behind us. Their weapons are largely laughable and wouldn't even dent our suits. It would be slaughter." 

"You can afford to take such a noble stance, your planet is safely near the asari influence sphere. Your economic output is immense just because of that fact, while most us have to rely on exporting our youth as technicians or soldiers. This war would mean a huge boon to our economies." a third interjected, prompting the poorer colonies' representatives to begin whispering amongst themselves. 

"And think of the benefits of having them as a client species. Our treaties with the Vol-clan have been incredibly helpful for us, but if we bring these humans to the Empire, we might be able to stabilize the Terminus systems with our combined might." 

"How can you be sure there is even a war? So far I read of two patrol ships and four scout ships being taken down. That does not scream an army to me. If they had strength, they would have tried overwhelming us instead of probing for weaknesses in our net." Kirixian, one of the diplomatic generals, interjected, having superseded by rank all other replies. 

"The captured specimen talked of the Systems Alliance to Inspector Eritrus, which must mean there's more of them. I say we interrogate this one until she tells us where their homestead is." 

As was the expected outcome, the factions broke off in disagreements, each red lighting the other's green lights. The wealthier Primarchs kept their distance, well aware that their veto could sway the tide at any point.

"Gentlemen, if we might interject, we believe we have some information for this distinguished hearing." the sickly, phlegmy voice of Beru Vin reverberated through the amphitheatre, grinding the entire procedures to a jarring stop. His labored breathing made him appear even weaker than his tiny barrel body looked. For hundreds of years, no volus had ever spoken in matters of strictly turian importance. 

"Excuse my meddling, but I believe we have two distinct problems here: the species and the specimen. If you could kindly let me explain, Primarch Davos, I would be honored to share the Vol-clan's findings." 

Even if Davos had not conceded, the silence that overtook the circularia carried Vin's voice to the other tiers without him having to adjust the speaker settings in his suit. 

"With the information we have gathered from distinguished Investigator Eritrus, as well as the bargaining chip of Patrol Officer Vakarian, we have found what appears to be a bustling Human-clan planet. Truthfully, their methods of encrypting satellite data were so similar to your own, that we had no difficulty in pinpointing their location. Our scouts found it improbable to engage their defenses, but it seems it is not heavily armed. It also appears to be a strategic planet, if not their home world. So it follows that a decisive attack would render them unable to further hinder galactic safety." he added with a flourish of his mechanical hands, drinking in the general stupor. 

"Now, we have direction and we have purpose. However, should we go about this impulsively, we might find ourselves under economic scrutiny from the other council races. If I may, the turian economy would need considerable funding that the Vol-clan is prepared to offer, but it would weaken our galactic standing to be boycotted, or worse, penalized for being aggressors. The krogans' fate is a dire lesson, one which we would not wish on our friends." 

"Typical of a volus to consider contracts and money when there is honor and Empire to defend." one of the older admirals raised his voice. The tepid answer from the room and the stern disapproval from his Primarch made him lower his head to anonymity. 

"And we aim to defend that same honor and Empire, but in a different way. We each serve as we can, my friends. I say stop the human race from invading Council space, but be rid of the incriminating evidence. After all, it will not bode well if it is discovered you broke the intragalactic Treaty on Prisoners of War." 

"Technicalities, Beru Vin! What is one human to the Council?” Vakarian leapt from his seat, only to be forcefully dragged down by the other two generals.

“Far be it from me to single out your son, pel Vakarian, whose fame has now reached us all. In fact, I daresay he’s innocent, but the official investigation led by the esteemed C-Sec Executor will clear that up, I’m sure. I am referring, of course, to the entire army that has been mobilized for the study of this specimen: soldiers, doctors, geneticists, so on and so forth. The salarians will be the first to say we’ve breached the treaty, since their professional pride would be wounded at us having access to information before them. The asari will follow, claiming breach on the diplomatic arm of the Citadel, namely themselves. We, the Vol-clan, would recommend that she be transferred to a reputable establishment outside of turian space. Of course, such establishment would keep utmost secrecy. Friends, I leave the debating to you.” 

A growing wave of protests met his each sentence, words like “coward”, “craven”, “clanless” and “faceless” riding on the crest. Beru Vin’s eye sockets glinted as he sat back down with the aid of his three-fingered claw. 

Eritrus had a satisfying mental image of puking in the volus’ filters “by accident”, but repressed it sharply and turned to the Primarch, who seemed to be deep in thought as the crowd roared around them. A worthy trick, but a cheap one. At length, he pushed the button for speech and the circularia fell silent. 

“Thank you, Corporate Official, the information is most welcome.” Davos ground out the words as if he were swallowing rocks for digestion. “It seems to me we risk too much by pursuing them diplomatically as a client species. Our duty now is to the turian Empire, to the Citadel and to the peacekeping role we have assumed since the Krogan Rebellion. But since there is great unrest on the matter, I subject both possibilities to a vote, to be decided in real time.” 

The Galaxy map flickered off, replaced by the vote tally. Eritrus struggled to keep his composure as he saw the votes tallying for total defeat of this new species, not daring to hope that his sympathizers would turn the tide. The day had petered out into a cold evening and the Nizaris wind began howling outside. 

Soon it would be time for the harvest.


	9. Skittering in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus seeks help in an unconventional place. Dania reluctantly assists him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of the most fun chapters to write, on par with Chapter 10 as top 5. Hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.  
> Sorry it's shorter than usual. 
> 
> And I'm going to probably sound like a very mean person, but this fic is pretty big on politics, drama, pain and less on the overall romance so far, so if that's not your cup, I will totally understand. I wanted to warn you ahead of time.

"Goddess, Garrus, for a sniper, you're so impatient." Dania leaned on the kiosk's back, pointedly watching a turian-quarian couple that had ensconced themselves between the square's elcor native trees. 

"Unlike you, I'm not getting any younger waiting around for this contact person." he suddenly looked towards the street, willing his twitchy fingers to stop rapping on the metal wall. 

Droves of busy citadel dwellers passed by, not one of them paying them so much as an ounce of attention. You'd have to travel to Munihilex or Illium to find people more self absorbed in their daily lives. 

A hooded turian detached herself from the crowd and made her way towards them. Garrus straightened himself before he saw that she ambled to the front of the store, leisurely conversing with the salarian merchant, who extolled the virtues of a shotgun mod that would splatter brains "as high as the Citadel's artificial atmo." For a merc, she was too plump by far, the waist cinch stretched out to its limits and her carapace bulging out unsightly. Even her legs, the little that could be seen through her knee-length tunic, were thick and unsightly. By her height, she was probably from one of the higher gravity colonies, but since she wore no insignia, he couldn't tell.

As she passed him on her way out, he heard her discordant voice whisper to them. 

"Follow me at a distance of ten meters. No contact." 

Dania sprung to action, suppressing a smile that Garrus could not understand. He adjusted his concealed weapon and followed, scanning the crowd for anyone that could recognize them as C-Sec officers, even in their civvies. A bad time to have second thoughts.

The stranger's stilted walk led them through Zakera's underbelly, straight through the markets and the press of people haggling for produce and fresh spices that tingled and warmed. Deeper and deeper she led them, until they had crossed a shady alley that opened up to the Keeper's tunnels. At this hour, maintenance stayed well away lest they be fodder for the protein vats. 

The tunnel door gave way to the turian’s rather inelegant, but untraceable hard hack. As they approached, the door creaked open to an obscure, dusty corridor and they followed suit. Dania finally wiped the smirk off her face when she took a good look at the stranger’s back, her whole body tensed in preparation.

“Where is Tevos?” Garrus snapped, his nerves frayed by the hour-long chase.

“You’re looking at her. Goddess, how do you turians support your upper body with these impossible waists?” the stranger reached to the small of her back and, to Garrus's incredulous looks, freed herself of cinch and hood. 

What remained was a latex mask that she stripped off, until he was looking at Tevos herself. His mandibles fell slack with awe. By his side, Dania tilted her head in respect, indigo blossoming on her cheeks.

"Now, how exactly are two small-time C-Sec officers involved in a matter of Galactic security?" 

Garrus shook off the uneasy feeling of her travesty and found his voice. How could he not have noticed the disguise?

"I won't waste your time, aide Tevos, but I ask that you keep this knowledge to yourself." 

"A back-alley secret meeting? What could I possibly lose if people found out?" she smiled with unmistakable asari superiority.

"We’ve discovered a new species.” he blurted out, wanting to finish the whole ordeal as quickly as possible.

“The two of you?” Tevos lifted an eyebrow and smacked her lips together. "I hope it was pleasant."

“No, not us, me, the tu--my people." he paused, realising the gravity of what he had just said." A few weeks ago a turian C-sec patrol made contact with a primitive space-faring race. Mostly by blowing up their spaceships.” he had her attention now, if her o-shaped mouth was any indication “One of them crash landed on Ostia, where I was stationed. The only survivor was taken prisoner to Palaven and I lost her trail there. I’m afraid there are some factions of turians that would like to use this as leverage to increase the Empire's influence. The newcomers call themselves - slight hesitation on the word and its damn near unpronounceable syllables - human and they seem to be militarized to a degree” 

“Why are you invested in this?” 

“Because I don’t think it’s right.”

“Ah, so it’s a matter of honor for you. What proof do you have?” 

“I...didn’t take any recordings...I didn’t know if they would be disrespectful to her. They destroyed the evidence of her being on Ostia, but I have the translator to her language. I gave it to the Hierarchy in exchange for her life.” he struggled with the omnitool’s controls, cursing it for the suddenly small interface. "This is her last possible location, as far as I know." 

“A translation software? But this is madness! A new crypto-language appears every other hour. Who’s to say it’s not some new encryption by pirates in the Terminus?”

He parted his lips to speak, but found no words. 

"That is not to say I don't believe you. I don't believe the son of the Chief Hawk would go to all that trouble to jeopardize his career and his family reputation by stalking me in plain daylight." 

"How did you...? Goddess!" Dania flushed purple, making Garrus feel grateful that his species was not so overt with their emotions.

"I haven't gotten to where I am by being oblivious. But I can't act on words alone. If what you say is true, I need more evidence before I can bring this to the councillor or the Democracy." she pondered, her eyes skittering to and fro without settling on one thing in particular. In the distance, a keeper rustled and began making his way to them.

"The political situation needs to be considered, as well. Imagine the storm this would cause. There's already brewing resentment from the batarians and the volus against the Council. If this came out, it would shake the triumvirate." she began pacing, ignoring Dania and Garrus completely.

"So what are we going to do about it?" 

"Nothing, there's nothing we can do without proof. I'm sorry, but I can't help you."

She turned to leave down a different corridor, the audience clearly over for her part. Garrus leapt on her tracks, propelling himself forward to grab her arm.

"If you can't help, I'm wondering what the krogans, or the batarians, or even the quarians would say when they hear of the Council covering this up in favor of the turians." he panted, eyes glassed over with rage. His window of opportunity was shutting down too fast.

"I see." her perfect white facial tattoos bunched up in a frown.

"Do you, madam aide?" he flexed his mandibles, neat rows of needle sharp teeth greeting her beneath his growl.

"Your argument seems to have convinced me to stay a while more. Let me counter that with my own perspective. If I take this to the Matriarch or to the Asari Democracy, they will laugh the both of us out of that dais. So I will ask again, what is your proof?"

Garrus looked away for a few moments, grinding his thoughts. Dania had caught up to them and nudged him, whispering caution in his ear. The Asari whispered so loudly. 

"I have a copy of her wrist computer, but I can't access it without her and they took her own away. I can send you the software." 

He wished he could apologise to Shepard for the intrusion as Tevos greedily searched his omni tool, looking over what he could extract from the primitive tool's encryption. He had almost reconstructed a picture of Shepard, with a different human who was holding something on his shoulders. 

"This has to be a joke." Tevos spoke and then interrupted Dania as she was preparing to say something. "These look like an unfortunate cross between an asari and a quarian, dreamt up by some salarian lab. Although, the trees...such great attention to detail. There's too much here to be an elaborate prank. And if this is a prank, good job on the depth." 

"I..." Dania found her voice, surprised by her own audacity. "I believe Garrus. He is one of the kindest and most hardworking people I know in C-Sec. And one of the only ones who wants to work with other species. If you don't believe him, believe me when I say there is nothing either of us could gain from this. And if you still want more proof, meld with him. "

Tevos looked at Dania with a strange fondness, as a mother would look at her cub.

"Waaaait a moment here, I haven't offered my brain to be scrambled by anyone." Garrus protested and turned to Dania in surprise. 

"It's the only way, Garrus. You can shut out all the memories and thoughts you don't want anyone else to find and see. You have to, if you want to save her."

"Much as I dislike melding with strangers, your companion here is right. Memories can seldom be faked or hidden from a meld." 

Garrus reluctantly turned to Tevos, whose entire countenance exuded calmness. He nodded towards her and she approached, drawing up to his chest. She was tall for an asari, with a striking iridescent purple skin and warm eyes. She tilted her head upwards and caught his eyes. When she drew her hand to touch the side of his head, he almost flinched away from the intimacy of that touch. 

"There will be nothing sexual about it, I'll be respectful. Don't shy away from me, open your eyes and think of the most beautiful place you've ever been."

Her voice was soothing velvet, a clean rag for your gun oil, the pleasure of buffing your carapace clean after a long day. Garrus did as she bid him, thinking of his home on Palaven, of his matri and patri sitting out on the sun deck and warming themselves on the last rays of the sunset. He is a small kid chasing a drone his dad controls, zipping through the garden like a possessed pyjak, careful not to disturb his patri's flowerbed. A smile envelops him as a shroud of pleasant vibrations wash over him, starting at the base of his neck, to the side of his face and travelling through his whole body. 

"Look into my eyes and embrace eternity." a voice said and suddenly it was pitch black and he was alone. He felt an oily sting at the base of his skull, as if someone was watching his every move. As if a stranger inhabited his body, his senses alien to him. 

He strained his eyes to see in the darkness and noticed he was in a corridor where multiple possible passages colluded to form a circular coliseum, with stairs ascending or descending to other levels. Garrus stayed away from the stairs, something told him it was not the way. The architecture was unmistakably turian, with solid columns and arches, with potted plants on the copper bannisters. He was pushed forward by a force he couldn't oppose, towards the heavy wooden doors on the right. Something in him resisted pulling on the doorknob, yet he felt compelled. 

The door creaked and from it burst forth a blinding light that illuminated a scene he was familiar with: his finger on the trigger of his pistol, aimed at Shepard. He snarled in fear and wanted to draw away from the memory, a powerful sense of shame and dread electrocution his spine. He looked on as a captive as Shepard huddled closer to him for warmth in the chill Ostia night, not really touching him, but not too far away where he couldn't reach out for her. She was telling him about Jaroslav and his boisterous personality, as she did for each of her squad mates. Eu-logias. No, that was not the way she said it. Jaroslav had behaved much like a krogan, from the stories she told. 

He slammed the door shut and moved to the other one, all the while begging himself not to open it. This one was of him and Bell, after he'd returned with Shepard to the base. He had told Bell the truth about his whereabouts, unable to keep it a secret. Bell was stunned for a moment, then passed his secret canteen to Garrus, who slugged the horosk without a second thought. Bell told him to keep out of trouble and forget it ever happened, forget about the human and all the complications she brings. There was a look on Bel's face that Garrus knew all too well, the one that said he knew Garrus wouldn't listen, but Bell was doing his best. 

Enough! He yelled to the void and it seemed like even Bell heard him through the veil of time, freezing in place. 

Garrus fell through the floor and was submerged in a thick, viscous liquid that filled his lungs and stung his eyes. He panicked, afraid that he would drown. Turians are not made for swimming, their carapace too heavy for flotation. He flailed his arms and legs, the motion unnatural to him as the liquid seemed to cling to his spurs and his cowl. He tried blowing air out of his lungs to see which way was up and he couldn't. Suddenly a powerful blue light pierced the sea and drew him forward, out of the clay. 

He gasped and opened his eyes, coughing violently. He was still in the keeper tunnels and Dania held his hand, whispering soothing sounds. Tevos had her back to him, pointedly looking somewhere that was nowhere near him. At length, she spoke.

"Let me be clear. This never happened and I promise you nothing. I might be able to call upon a part of Councillor Tanara's influence and send a Spectre to investigate. Off the record. I don't want to have a diplomatic incident on my hands. If they don't find any proof, you're on your own. In the meantime, I'd listen to your friends advice and stay out of trouble if I were you." 

A shiver passed through her and she left, narrowly avoiding a keeper as it turned a corner, its arms overflowing with what looked like a heating unit stabilizer. Garrus felt like is head had been replaced with a mix of wires that had shortcircuited. As the keeper passed them by, he realised that some poor schmuck would find himself without heat in his slum apartment.


	10. Excessively polite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tevos fulfills her promise. The Council's varren.

A light dose of hallex, that's all it would take to improve her mood. Yes, a bit of the faraway fog, in some hallex den where the waitresses' plump little bosoms and their feathery touches would circle her in those minuscule veils that covered nothing. She would smell their perfumed bodies and their myriad promises of eternity and all would be well. She would not need to see their faces or know their names for all eternity. 

But not right now.

Not as her purple blood left a breadcrumb trail from one end of the warehouse to the other, alongside crates, next to robot parts, between containers and the assortment of corpses in her wake. To her left, a little girl, no more than 20, held a trembling little batarian (maybe 5? Or 6? Who knew with these short lived ones?) in her last embrace. The gash that tore the asari girl open from just underneath her electric collar to her sacral bone made her look like a rag doll, eyes glassed over and purple stuffing out for the world to see. A thousand years or more, snuffed out because she wanted to protect her friend. As she vaulted over a container that had served her well for cover, she found the slaver cowering in a corner, now bereft of all his flesh shields and paid mercs, frantically trying to escalate an empty container's sleek walls. She had overturned the desk he hid behind, pulling it away with the last hit she had on her power cells.

"This one implores you, Spectre, let it dissuade you from reducing its light." the scumbag still had a working translator and, to her utter annoyance, his bioluminescence merely increased the massive headache coming from her overheated amp.

The dirty wall he had chosen as his last stand was marked with the iridescent fluid oozing from his two stump legs. He still had four more, if she counted right. Didn't stop him from flopping his way here once he realised the tide of battle was against him. The gun sang in her hand, a low warble of heat and slickness, oil and fire.

"What could this one do to service you? It would be more than glad to finance your retirement with a beautiful, remote planet on which no one would ever bother you. This one only awaits your words." 

She grunted and looked towards the two girls, grimacing as she saw the batarian close three of her eyes in pain. The other was closed shut and bruised. Too many words in this world for pain. Too many words altogether.

"This one would see that all your needs are accomplished. You would want for nothing. It has many many high friends." 

"I see none here." she mocked, pointing her gun alternately at his good legs and at his lungsac. 

"It assures you its intentions were pure. It did not know of the horrors its underlings caused!" his voice was shrill now, rising an octave higher for each minute of silence.

"Gravity." she whispered, barely audible.

"P-pardon?" 

“What keeps you floating in a dry world?” 

“This...this one does not understand.”

"I don't like repeating myself, Luminescence of Innocence." 

"Mass effect generators." he whimpered, drawing his tentacles inwardly as if to protect them.

“So if I were to shoot the generator under your gut, you would be killed by gravity.” Suffocation would probably work first, but she was not choosy with her causes of death.

"It implores you to reconsider. If you were to walk out of here, it would make sure to handle all the children with care and return them to their rightful owner."

She shot one of his good tentacles, taking delight in the way he doubled over, the other tentacles squirming to protect the area and put out the incendiary liquid. The splatter was satisfying in its own way. His blood glowed an eerie holographic color. 

"People don’t have owners, jellyfish." 

Lowering her gun, she closed in, one step at a time, on her toes. She took on all the grace of a feline, muscles taut and elastic behind her dented armor as she circled her prey, leaving droplets of blood behind her. One of the bastards jammed her painkiller dispenser with a concussive round, but she'd get it fixed after she got her fix. The smell of fear enticed her, brought her closer to her primal urges. She needed the communion. No, she wanted it, did not need it. Closer still and she would touch him, meld with him and know the horrors she will have thrown out of this world. 

The Void began seeping into her now, slowly creeping in and heightening her senses: she could smell the perversion and muck of his promiscuity and it made her needy. He stood perfectly still, wheezing out of whatever air box he possessed, raising his remaining tentacles for protection. Her omni-tool began screeching for attention, the sound of an asari synth-pop song bouncing off the warehouse walls and reverberating in the empty space.

Ooh, baby, I’m blue azure, perfect ecstasy  
So stop fighting and embrace eternity  
Ooh, baby, you know, you know, you do  
There’s no running from me and you.

She snapped back to reality, her eyes slowly returning to her natural green color as frustration seeped through her whole body. 

"You get off easy today." she said as she shot him right in the lung sack, a merciful kill by her standards. "The walls needed a new coat of paint anyway." 

Lazily, she swiped to accept the call.

"Janora, why are you not answering?" a calm voice greeted her with no video link, as usual. 

Janora made a noncommittal noise as she holstered her heavy pistol and dragged herself over to the two children, helping the batarian out from under the rubble. 

“I was busy.” 

“I see. I have a very interesting proposition for you, off the records this time.” the woman on the other side droned on, unphased by Janora’s heavy breathing. “Secure your channel to our frequency and I’ll let you in on the juicy bits.”

She adjusted a few switches. The haptic interface buzzed. 

“I’m listening.” 

The little batarian looked at her outstretched hand with equal parts wonder and terror, vigorously shaking her head to show that she was no disobedient wretch. The electric collar still crackled on her neck. Janora racked her brains to remember how her mother looked when she smiled at her as a child and tried to replicate the expression. She was no pleasing sight by anyone’s standards. She just hoped she wasn’t frightening. 

Her nose was too big and sharp for her face, rising out of the flat plains of her cheekbones as if it was a thessian monastery. Her eyes might have been beautiful, but they were oddly slanted, a trait that had earned her a lot of teasing in her childhood. She didn’t mind being called a salarian mutt, it was better than being a pureblood. By way of contrast, her lips were a thin, pale blue that made her look as if she was constantly midway between a grimace and a sneer. She extended her hand. Her smile was less than successful, judging by the girl’s reaction. 

“I’ll spare you the boring details, as usual. I want you to head to Palaven and find out if the birds have discovered a new species they’re not telling the Council about. When we disconnect this call you’ll find all the relevant information on your omni. It’s not a lot, but it’ll give you an edge.” 

“Unofficial. Matriarch Tanara doesn’t know about it. Turians, either.” she reached for her multipurpose medi packs to stop the little girl’s bleeding, but the energy she had expended on her biotic attacks made her clumsy and she dropped one, cursing the damned Goddess. That seemed to do the trick and made the small girl smile. 

“Which is why I’m asking this of my old friend, and not of some other Spectre. Use whatever knowledge and network you have, but keep it down low. This could blow up into an immense scandal if treated by someone wet behind ears.” she bludgeoned on, without taking a breath. “Your cover will be that you’re investigating this insignificant paramilitary group operating right under the Turian Empire’s nose. I convinced the Councillor to assign you to that. Might as well do the world some good while we’re at it.”

“I'm done here anyway. The usual pay, is that understood?" she replied, now on her hands and knees and pretending to be fumbling for the packs, much to the girl's continued amusement. At length, the batarian came closer and picked up the pack herself, first pulling out the bandages necessary for Janora, before rummaging for the light hemoconstricter for herself. Janora was neither that selfless, nor this self-reliant when she was this child's age, or the equivalent of it. She flopped on her butt, feigning defeat. It felt good to take pressure away from her burning muscles.

"Yes, yes, we'll find nice and proper homes for whatever skid row you've liberated now." Tevos blabbered before disconnecting the call, apparently satisfied with her cunning plan. 

"Why do people talk so much, little one?" she directed her gaze to the batarian, who was so preoccupied with treating the gunshot wound on Janora's leg that she just looked up, blinked in surprise that she was addressed and seemed conflicted on whether it was appropriate to say something. Finally she managed a whimper.

"Allora does not know, mistress. It simply feeds the master." 

Janora held her breath, her face a frozen rictus. The child stopped her ministrations and withdrew, assuming a quiet, submissive position, palms tucked under her bent knees. Born a slave. Janora turned with urgency to the girl and crushed her to her chest, wrapping her arms tightly around the frail body.

"You are not a thing. You are a person. And you can be anything you want." 

"Even a doctor?" Allora’s eyes widened in childish glee and Janora realised she might actually be younger than she appeared. "But wretches don't become doctors, mistress. We just serve." 

"Janora, no mistress. I will make sure you become what you want. Let's free the others." 

Allora got up, but her whole body trembled, as if a pressure valve had cracked and was leaking steam. Janora followed the forlorn look up to where the asari girl's body lay, stuck in a prayer. Ahead, the carnal slaves that had survived began sheepishly getting out from cover, banding together in a tangle of comforting limbs. 

Janora took the little girl in her arms and headed towards those already free, either coaxing, directing or yelling at them, as each required, to gather up and assist in liberating the rest. She first heard murmured conversations that soon escalated to ecstatic howls or hysteric crying, most of them revolving around what the freshly freed slaves would do with their newfound agency. She had no trouble distinguishing those too small or too lost to have any plans, either because they had been broken by years of abuse, or were born slaves and had known nothing else. The sound of chains clattering on the floor was intoxicating to all.

A gaunt salarian approached her, wary at first, then with increasing confidence. Both his horns were cut off, no doubt to make him an example for some imagined slight. His eyes spoke of the things they had seen. 

"Lay down, you've lost too much blood." he chimed in with a nasal voice and gestured towards a crate "I can fix your armor if you'll give me access to your omnitool." 

“Doctor? Mechanic?" she debated whether she was physically capable of ignoring his order, but decided to stand when she felt Allora tighten her grip on the armor's collar. These people needed strength.

"Both. Combat medic. Caught when my unit was attacked by batarians. Been three years in this hellhole, but I don't think tech has gone so far that I wouldn't be able to at least stop the blood flow and fix your armor's medicine dispenser. Name’s Verin." 

"See, little one? Medic." her left hand strayed to brush Allora’s crown as the girl first turned away, then studied Verin intensely from behind her eyelashes. 

Janora cocked her head to the side and gestured behind her at the hundreds of slaves that were now milling about, most obviously mistreated in some way, malnourished or beaten. They had started to pile the bodies in neat, orderly rows, covering them up with pieces of cardboard they retrieved from boxes lying around. The little girl in her arms began squirming as two asari slaves approached her friend, finally extricating herself from Janora's arms and bounding towards her companion, covering her body protectively with her small frame. The pair looked at her with a mixture of pain and understanding. One dropped to whisper something into the girl's ear, embracing her.

With a confidence in her step that she did not feel, Janora marched to the skyvan she had parked in front of the warehouse, retrieving the boxes of supplies tucked in the back with meticulous precision. The salarian struggled to keep up with her, tripping every two steps, but doggedly following and insisting she had to listen to him. His words overflowed, sagging and billowing in the empty warehouse. 

"Eat." she said as she threw him a levo ration bar. He regarded the golden package with reverence for all of two seconds before unwrapping it and shoving it forcefully in his mouth, swallowing his bites almost whole. "Help me distribute these. Shuttle coming to help." 

"You're a Spectre, aren't you? What are you doing here?" 

"Not a Spectre here, just helping." 

"You know, I can hardly imagine a worse way to die than hearing Mini Saressia's song before I paint the walls with my blood. That's a whole new level of torture, and I've seen enough to last me three asari lifespans." 

"Hm, I'm an eccentric artist." she turned towards him and, to her surprise, an involuntary muscle spasm sent her lips upwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started writing this I never expected more than maybe 30 clicks and one lonesome comment. I just breached 1500 clicks and if even 100 of you are reading, I'm floored and besides myself. Thank you so much! <3


	11. Words of respect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> C-Sec's bogeyman meets an unexpected situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Dictionary and worldbuilding reference**  
>   
> 
>  _anima_ = part of the asari siarsit belief, the anima is considered the essence of the person. Similar to other human animistic beliefs, siarism believes there is life and purpose in all beings and objects in this universe and that their interactions hold together the strands that bind reality. Contrary to most human beliefs, though, that essence is gifted by the universe and not by a deity, and returns in the Great Tapestry of the universe once it has served its purpose (woven its weave).

The symphony had almost died out, stringent notes and shrill cries of the omykon tumbling in a stream of Cipritine drums, cascading over the walls, only to be strangled by the claustrophobic space between his aural canals. If he squinted, he could see the turian warriors charging into battle. Their blood is pumping in a frenzy of blue lust the likes of which none have seen since the subjugation of the Titans in days of yore. 

Arvin Eritrus was nothing if not meticulous, and he could separate the exact moment and tempo when the symphony moved from the heroic seizures of the battlefield to the harrowing cries of the widowers and children mourning their mothers and fathers. Ever since he had been a little boy, he could distinguish the flows and natural rivulets that drove people to action. He only needed to pick and separate the exact moment when a dalatrass, crazed over the loss of her colony's clutch, decided to annihilate the rivaling clan right on his ward. Or when a quarian, young and selfless, thought to bring back as a gift for his Pilgrimage the superior air purifying schematics the volus had devised.

The problem for most, and most turians especially, is that they were not adept at seeing the smaller pictures that made up the whole tableau of people's eternal misery. He liked to think of himself as a worm. A worm was slow, but efficient. It nibbled its way through the dark, damp earth, leaving entire cities of mazes for his offspring to flourish in. He took solace in that as he lay alone in the lackluster hotel room, following the myriad preparations for the war on his datapad.

Figures jumped and haggled for attention. The sixth fleet pledged two hundred warships. The seventh, always in competition, pledged more. The outer colonies, hungered for advancement, scrambled over eachother’s lively corpses to give more cannon fodder. Fools, the lot of them. 

The numbers served to numb him, take away what made him a person and lock it behind the Investigator’s persona. It wasn’t the kind, selfless Arvin that tortured or maimed people, it was solely the ruthless investigator that crept up between the cracks in the dungeon. Yet, conversely, it wasn’t the investigator that mourned Lil’s passing, but the absentee father alone in a hotel room. 

He reached for the cup of plant brew, sipping the dregs that had accumulated in the lukewarm drink. An honorable death is preferable to a dishonorable existence, after all. He hoped that she knew how proud he was of her. This fight was as much for her as it was for himself and his family’s honor. 

On unsteady legs, he rubbed his carbon hip as if hoping to stimulate circulation to a painful area. Some things are not made better with cybernetics. The music died down to a mere whisper now and he cursed the console by his bed for anticipating that he would move to another room. He struggled to reach the bathroom without the use of a cane, glaring hatefully at the holographic watch that informed him it was still 4 A.M. Water ran through his fingers, spraying his tunic in its mad dash towards the rusty pipes below. 

Yet the face staring back at him from the washroom mirror confused him. There was no contorted mask of hatred there, just an aging man with sad, faraway eyes. He had aged so much that even his plates were now dull and cracked. He dropped his head to rest on his chin and keened, kneeling on the cold bathroom concrete. The sliding door opened and closed spastically in front of him until he finally managed to drag his left foot closer to his chest. He stood perfectly still, his cramped body the only measure of space he allowed to filter through. 

Time flowed in hiccups and wails, no longer the orderly slip of the hours that happened just beyond the sliding door. The clock had no power here, no agency upon his impoverished anima, no claim to his existence. 

When he had been a teenager, he had devoured xenoanthropology books, desperately searching for a higher power that would explain his suffering. That was when he learned that batarians believe their soul leaves through their eyes on death and that the volus erected their cemeteries as high towers, in defiance of their world’s gravity. Turians had no satisfactory religion for him, they all revolved obsessively around honor, collective and duty. He did not like the internalised guilt, the implied worthlessness of the individual. His smart, beautiful daughter was worth more than a momentary glitch of shame. Time, it seemed, took everything with the greedy grasp of a petulant child. 

But it would take no more from him. His son still survived, and he would make sure of the permanence of that fact. Reaching for the rim of the sink, he hoisted himself up to level with the image in the mirror once again. He washed away the grief, burying the death throes of his daughter with it. As he exited the bathroom and fell back into reality, he picked up his clothes from the rack and carefully laid them out in the precise order for the morning ritual. 

Satisfied with what he saw, he reached out for his omni-tool, checked that it had enough power, and headed for the door. On his way out he passed by an asari, who was struggling with walking in her radiation suit. She narrowed her eyes at him, as if daring him to make a snide comment, but he ignored her and went on. He had no time for some politician’s mistress. 

Arvin took a moment to admire the hotel’s lobby, waiting for the skycar he had ordered to surface from the garage. A lot of Hierarchy officials chose this hotel for their trips to Cipritine, and it was obvious why in the lavish decorations, full of traditional turian artwork. He found it incredibly amusing that most species could not distinguish turian artwork from the daily utilitarian items. He still remembered the story of the salarian diplomat who thought his life was too short to research customs in depth, so he praised and extolled the artistic virtue of a bidet to a room full of turian dignitaries. That memory pulled an involuntary smile from him. 

When the sky car emerged, he only took a perfunctory glance at its autopilot board and instructed it to reach the Imperial Palace. It would be a rather short trip, but the autopilot could not complain in its cheerful "safety first" voice. To compensate for duration, he fixed the speed gear to cruise, hoping to avoid the other congested traffic corridors. 

From this distance, he could see the streets as he glided on by, each filled with a motley assortment of citizens going their own way. As he got closer to the Primarch’s Command center, the dress styles became more conservative, less about individuality and more about function. The few aliens milling around seemed indistinguishable from one another, all swaddled up in radiation suits. It took a special kind of obstinate to make Palaven your home if you were not born turian. 

Apart from the volus, who had designed their own anti-radiation methods built in their suits, the asari were the biggest minority on Palaven. He had already passed the Thessia district, where most of the levo and dual chirality restaurants were. Even the occasional quarian had taken up and opened repair shops, despite knowingly shortening their already sickly lifespans. 

He sat comfortably now, rhythmically stroking the padded seat. Arvin made it a point of pride to never be caught with his ankle spurs crossed, which is why he never rode in the back of the car. Too many variables to account for. He was going over his speech for the Advisors, marking it for emphasis. Just the right amount of pathos was needed. It would not do to behave like a fledgling rebelling against the strict discipline of the military. 

The other half of his brain registered the car careening out of its lane and the flash of flame that followed the resounding crash ahead. He switched the autopilot off. The brakes whined, but the car began its slow descent, ruled by Arvin's tight grip. The street level became congested here, people fleeing about in abject terror, trying to find cover. The Hierarchy military recruitment and enrollment office had a skycar jutting out of the entranceway, an impromptu flaming monument surrounded by insurgents. He let his concealed pistol slip from its holster and expanded it with a flick of the wrist. The door to the skycar opened to smoke and chaos.

"For freedom! One man should not decide the fate of billions!" an older turian yelled as the others quickly took up defensive positions. 

"Down with the Primarch!" another answered and the insurgents cheered. 

Arvin would have agreed with them, had he not been working himself towards a fit of apoplexy. Attacking civilians! In broad daylight, smack in the middle of the capital of the homeworld! And the Hierarchy troops were nowhere to be seen. Most of them must have been wiped by the crash, but still, the emergency response should have been overwhelming. A thousand years of peace were making them complacent. 

He padded to the closest cover, killing one of the hostiles with a shot to the back of the neck in his haste. As he swivelled to get a better view of the building, his eyes fixed on an asari slumping against a partially collapsed wall, her radiation suit soaked with purple. By her side a fledgling was attempting to protect her, but he was more likely to shoot himself than any attacker by the way he held that gun. If he didn’t get them to safety, the woman would die of radiation sickness before she had a chance to bleed out. Just then movement to the side of this scene alerted him of the presence of another handful of asari teens all huddled together, hidden by the melted steel structure. 

Arvin concealed himself as best he could and flicked on his HUD. Indecision gnawed at him, meathooks seeking for purchase in the tender flesh of his underbelly. He slowed his breathing, stabilizing his hands to remember the proper movements. He knew the helplessness and the abject fear these children were feeling all too intimately. 

He was only a boy of twelve when he had witnessed the public execution of his parents. That memory, buried deep within his mind, had a way of floating back up to the surface unbidden, paralyzing him whenever it did. 

“I fear not death, for it is the final act by which I return to the Universe the gift of my essence. I fear not violence, but the paralysis of inaction. I fear only because the hour is dark and I am ignorant. And in my darkest hour I call upon the light of the Universe to break the wall of death and restore morning to me.” he mouthed rapidly, the oft-repeated words washing over him. His breathing slowed down until his decision was made. 

Pivoting on his heels, he lunged out of cover, his long legs eating up the short distance between himself and his targets. Arvin sidestepped the throng of civilians running in the other direction, reaching the group just in time to put up a barrier against the wall collapsing. The strain of doing it without his amp wracked his nervous system, tendrils of pain shooting through the base of his skull. 

“You...you’re a biotic.” the boy mumbled, as if the words cost him his entire dignity. The hand holding the beat up pistol he’d been brandishing with such courage a moment ago faltered. The barrier fizzled and crackled against the onslaught from the attackers. 

“Kid, those labisians over there want your blood and you’re disgusted by me being a biotic?” he yelled back at him. The pain was becoming unbearable, each slug the barrier defended a heavy tax on his brain. “Shoot them, or I solemnly promise I’ll pull your skull apart by your fringe.” 

“Uh...yes sir.” the boy replied, almost standing at attention. 

“Spirits save me.” he whispered, convinced he couldn’t be heard over the infernal din. He turned his head around, barely enough to look sideways at the boy and see him trembling. “On my mark, throw me that pistol and drop to cover. Ready? Mark!” 

Arvin dropped the barrier as soon as he saw the boy was safe by the older asari’s side. He had one chance at this and it made the whole difference between life and death for all of these people. The street had cleared up significantly, littered only with debris and the bodies of those who were unfortunate enough to be either close to the crash, or to the insurgents’ gun range. In his peripheral vision, he saw movement from more people who were either trapped, or could not escape from cover. 

The hostiles were too spread out for him to use a proximity charge, and the building front would probably collapse if he did. A familiar battle hymn came to him then, a slow, tantalizing affair that erupted in a blaze of drums and glory the closer danger got. His muscles ached to relieve the tension slowly building up. 

Gathering his waning strength, he charged up a biotic lash, aiming it at the turian in green armor marching towards them. His head made a dull crack on the concrete as it fell. Brandishing a pistol in each hand, Arvin heard his own shield whine and sputter as he trained his weapons and shot. Each bullet found a new owner as he discharged round upon round of concentrated fire. He dropped to cover only once he had downed two of them. There were five more moving to flank him. 

The poor kid had begun crying in earnest now, wailing for his mother and father and begging any god available to deliver him. Arvin spat his frustration and scooted closer to him, taking him in his arms for a brief second.

“What’s your name?” he asked, banishing the urgency he felt. 

“M-M-Marcus, pel.” the boy replied almost eagerly.

“Marcus, I promise you that you will see your mother and father again, but you need to be strong. You’re almost a maris now, it’s your duty to protect those who can’t protect themselves.” 

The boy simply nodded, not entirely convinced of the truth of Arvin’s words. He broke eye contact for only thirty seconds, just enough to shoot a straggler who had chosen a poor cover, downing him with a well placed neck shot. 

“You were very brave to help these children. I need your help now. Marcus, focus on me. Leave the older asari’s side and take the young ones to safety. There’s an emergency tunnel twenty paces from here that should still be open. The blast doors are keyed to the city’s emergency numbers. I’ll distract these bastards while you run, but I can’t do that for a long time. They depend on you now.” 

“Wait, I can’t do that! I don’t want to die!” the boy yelled, but Arvin could not go back to encourage him further. 

He seized a momentary ceasefire to roll towards an overturned row of vending machines, drawing the insurgents’ attention to his movement. From there, he crawled along the reinforced glass bannister, dropping a couple of proximity charges in his wake. He stopped at the opposite end of the room, facing the exit. He backed into the wall and checked his guns, smearing a bit of omnigel on the old model SMG to prevent overheating. There was only one other way they could get to him now, by using the ramp that left them exposed to his bullets. 

“Four against one? The odds are not on your side, labisians.” he cackled, goading them on. 

The leader of the group stood up and roared, hurling invectives at Arvin and ordering his minions ahead. 

“My mother’s already dead, you filthy krogan fucker, but if you’d like, you’re welcome to her rotting corpse.” he yelled back, hoping to keep the thugs’ attention on him and not on Marcus, who had returned for the last of the teenagers. 

He switched his HUD to his most popular list of music and synced his gun to the firing algorithms on his display. To the bass arpeggios of Caelatus’ Ordo Equilibri, he trained his crosshair on a crouching turian who was barely old enough to consider marriage. The youngster reached into his utility belt, carefully extracting a grenade and pulling the pin. There was something elegant about his efficient movements, about the obvious way in which he counted two strokes of the timer and rotated his shoulder joint, releasing his grip at the perfect moment. Had he been unprepared for this, that grenade would have worn Arvin’s name and likeness on it. 

He pushed on his aching feet and lifted himself up, raising his right hand to eye level, with the little finger and thumb overlapping. It was now time for the percussion instruments to kick in. A blue aura blazed through him, stopping time in its tracks and bending the surrounding space. His shields were dropping at an alarming rate. It would only be twenty seconds more until the bullets ate at his flesh. He only needed five, if he could just access the right muscle memory without an amplifier. 

A trickle raised his fringe on its end, travelling from the base of his skull down each section of his spine, only to surge back up towards his arm with the strength of a thresher maw. He felt his hand dilate and expand, tendrils of blue biotics escaping his claws. For all of his mental exertion, it was a pitiful thing, barely a clawball in size, but it hurtled itself straight for the grenade, triggering an explosion right in the middle of the four remaining insurgents. 

To the marching drums’ allegro energico, he saw the young turian’s eyes grow comically wide as the once flying object returned in their midst by a force that denied physics, while the others raised their hands above their heads. The ceiling collapsed in on them, bringing with it a hail of fetid pipe water that extinguished the budding fire. Arvin turned to look towards Marcus’ position and felt a tinge of satisfaction as he saw the fledgling moving the asari to safety.

The last thought that passed through Arvin Eritrus’ mind as he sailed through the air was that Marcus would grow up alright, far better than he. Just like his son.


	12. Where the blue birds sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janora visits Palaven. A taste of another life.

Two weeks after she had answered Tevos’ call, Janora began regretting it. The Citadel community had been built up on strong asari beliefs, which meant it was simply an immense marketplace of favors, trades and bartering that had received a pretty crestlift to hide its barbaric origin. Even the smallest and basely occupant had something to trade, whether it was her life or his body, and the strong took advantage of that, under the guise of benevolent oligarchy. Janora herself had done more than her fair share of morally ambivalent favors. True, most of them were for people that had dainty green canopies in their lush gardens and ample foyers in their homes, but the point stood. 

Tevos might just be off her rockers to risk such a scandal blowing up in their faces. And if she wasn’t, her endgame was, as always, almost impossible to discern. The turians were hiding something that not even her Spectre clearance could penetrate, that much was certain, but how they managed to do that right under the Council’s nose caused her to reconsider her opinions of their craftiness. 

Ostia housed one of the largest external training grounds for C-sec troops, which was squarely under the Council’s rule. But C-sec itself was under the turians’ thumb, their very own ill-conceived, soul-stifling child. She made a note on her omnitool to re-check some important cases, just to see how far C-sec was covering up turian interests and whether she should spare the time and emotional investment to make some heads roll. 

Ostia had proven a dead-end for the moment. Whoever had been there before her had done such a thorough job of removing any trace of suspicious activities, that not even a quarian could find dirt particles if they dedicated all of their suit’s processing capability for it. Smacking that smug grin off of the Dean of the Academy would have been worth three perfect garden worlds, but alas. She was an artist, not a butcher.

All of these thoughts scrambled through Janora's mind in the space it took her to park her small fighter in Cipritine’s main port docking bay. The landing protocols no longer required her attention, much like breathing or mating. A mere news vid you glance at for a minute, before you realize that there are more important things happening with your bowel movements. 

Other Spectres preferred lavish ships manned with people chomping at the bit to die for them. She preferred to make her enemies die by her hand instead.

The traffic controller sneered at her through the comm, purposefully keeping his voice in a range that confused her translator. He sounded as if he were being played back in the background, delaying his secondary syrinx as much as he could without being outright hostile. No secret that turians dislike Spectres or anything to do with creativity in general. Let them keep their rules. Also no secret among Spectres that turian members were some of the more ruthless and inventive strategists the order has ever had. She was torn between indifference and grudging respect in that matter.

She equipped all of her gear slowly, languidly, as if each piece was a ripe fruit that she gently picked from the tree. As usual, her locker was a mess, which made her screw her nose with displeasure. Pistol parts mingled with mods and half-finished projects, while her weapons bench was overflowing with more. She even found a piece she thought she'd lost a while ago. Her strict education frowned upon clutter as a sign of a lax moral composition. No one ever considered that it was simply a sign of entropy doing its job. 

Since the state of things couldn't be helped now, she merely shrugged and selected her arsenal, a veritable army's worth of guns. She stepped into the airlock and purred as the cool disinfectant sprayed her face, reminding her by its surreptitious caress that she hadn't had a good lay in quite a while. Right now, anything with a pulse would do.

"Lucen's gift to processing center," she gathered her wits. "decontamination protocol complete. Permission to disembark?" 

"Granted, Spectre V'neari. Welcome to Palaven." a cheery voice answered her. "May I remind you that all non-turian visitors are required to stop by the Bureau of Health Protection to rent or check the functionality of their private radiation suits, as well as receive proper anti-radiation medicine for a prolonged stay." Janora adjusted the volume settings on her headpiece until the voice no longer stomped like a klixen rampage on her nerves. "All buildings and public spaces marked with the sign I have just forwarded to your omni are safe spaces for non-turian visitors to enjoy Cipritine unhindered. Since this is your first time on Palaven, we recommend..."

"Thank you, that will be all." she grumbled, disconnecting the call. She thought she heard an indignant squeak on the other end, which amused her. 

After she was made thoroughly uncomfortable in her radiation suit, she thanked the Goddess for Spectres being given preferential treatment in processing lines. She felt the disapproving gazes of the other people waiting in line. 

"Thank you ma'am, your Spectre status is recognized. That will be all. Enjoy your stay." the curt, but deferential officer let her know. 

She wasted no time hanging around, heading straight for the skycar station. The press of people here was suffocating and, like a pond fish suddenly finding itself at sea, she struggled to navigate it. Her life as a Spectre meant that she was rarely in highly populated areas, unless they were specifically marked for obliteration. This port, too, would be hard to destroy, but not impossible: concealed snipers on almost every perch, security in both uniforms and civilian clothing, and even mechs on standby in hidden trapdoors. With the line of skycabs in sight, she suddenly noticed that the throng of people diverted from the exits, huddling closer and overflowing towards the news terminals that broadcasted non-stop drivel.   
A speaker whirred somewhere near her and she jumped, her hand automatically reaching for the shotgun strapped on her back. 

"All visitors and residents are urged to remain calm. There has been a terrorist attack in Cipritine's Tellurum district and we are investigating it."

The crowd froze like a volus puppet show on display. All the turians, even the tourists, shifted and grouped together seamlessly, forming a protective circle around the aliens present. An elcor yelped in confusion, rambling on with undisguised apprehension. There was no such thing as a turian civilian, and they acted like a military formation. 

"The situation is under control, but, for the moment, we urge all citizens, visitors and tourists to remain on the premises. This has been declared a safe space.” the mechanical whorls of the announcer’s voice told her it was pre-recorded. By the inflexion and the dated accent, the turians had been preparing for this for decades. 

Janora elbowed her way to the exit from the Arrival lobby and stopped in front of two burly soldiers, as wide as they were tall. One of them had a gruesome scar on his face that had stripped his natural plating and distorted his colony markings. She turned to address him. 

“I’m leaving. Spectre authority.” she spoke in flat tone.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, you’re going to have to wait for the stabilization of the incident. It’s not safe out there.” he replied with all the training of a person used to deal with difficult people and win.

Janora turned her back to him, gingerly touching the Spectre Master Gear Shotgun on the small of her back. 

“Safe for who?” she demurred.

“Callax, let her pass. She’s more dangerous contained than out there. You’re a Spectre, you can help the defenders.” the other soldier spoke, waving with his assault rifle towards the exit. 

She turned to him, noting his pleasing facial structure and small fringe. His eyes had fascinating copper and iridium reflections that complimented his green colony markings. To his credit, he did not flinch as she continued her examination, although he appeared thoroughly uncomfortable at her fixed stare. 

The other moved out of the way and gestured towards the door. 

“Good day.” 

Each micromovement they made was synchronised to the highest degree of efficiency.

She stuck her chin out and nodded to them, favoring the handsome one. The skycab station was empty now, a desolate parking lot bereft of the hustle and bustle of daily life. She chose one at random, overrode its controls and set its geolocator to the Tellurum district. All thoughts of her primary mission were erased in her rush to get to the scene of action. 

The grandiose architecture of Cipritine whirled around her, the white-washed fronts and immense, intricately detailed arches blurring into a repetitive motion. Most of the external elevations featured gabion terraces that somewhat softened the totalitarian structures, albeit rather unsuccessfully for her tastes. For all its grandeur, turian architecture felt claustrophobic and cold. But the birds sure had taste and the fact that they achieved such imposing buildings with their short lifespans made them a fascinating species.

Smoke on the horizon told her that she was nearing her destination. As she approached, law enforcement sirens and lights prompted her to slow down her mad dash. She parked the car haphazardly in a grassy knoll and rushed to where the ad-hoc command center had established itself. Perplexingly, all around her turians were moving along the street, seemingly oblivious to the hastatim cleaning up the bodies in their impeccable white hazmat suits. The absence of onlookers and gawkers struck her as odd. A turian approached her just as she prepared to address a patrolman. 

“Spectre Janora V’naeri, welcome. My name’s Antarix Vesper, Chief Constable of the Tellurum district. Customs Officer Darin radioed to let us know you’d be making an appearance. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” he saluted her. 

“Likewise. Janora, no formality. What happened?” 

A small smirk appeared on both their faces. Each caught the other sizing them up. 

“Antarix, then. Separatists, most likely. They hit the Rec-enroll center on the one day a month when we process client individuals’ requests and allow field trips. Sickening.” he spat to the side, clearing his voice. 

“They wanted something.” her tone of voice was flat, but it formulated as a question. 

“We don’t know exactly. A senior C-sec investigator got here before us and wiped them all out before we had a chance to ask polite questions. But if you ask me, it’s the same as these loonies always want. Anarchy. Down with the meritocracy and the Primarch. They call it self-determination. We could use your help in investigating.” 

He seemed genuinely distressed, although his turian pride would not let any ounce of it transpire through steel.

“C-sec investigator?” 

“Yeah, he’s on some top clearance mission, can’t get near him unless you’re the Spirits blasted Primarch. Or maybe a Spectre.” 

“Got it, Antarix. I’ll be in contact.” she nodded and turned on her heels towards the skycar. Her navpoint informed her that it would be a short ride towards the hospital. She could make it in under ten minutes, since the whole sector was cordoned off. 

Before long, she was in the waiting room, where a polite receptionist informed her that she could not disclose patient information to non-relatives. She had to admire the young woman who stood her ground faced with a walking army of one, but she had come too far to be denied access. When she superseded her hierarchy, the receptionist merely nodded and asked that she wait while Investigator Eritrus was out of the Intensive Care ward. Janora sat down on the only chair not meant for turian physiology and began inspecting the room in earnest this time and not just cataloguing places for cover and all of the exits. 

The space she had claimed as her own quickly emptied, despite the large number of people waiting in the room. She put that down to her generally friendly demeanor. On the opposite wall, a vidscreen was turned on to the news, giving ample coverage to “the most daring terrorist attack in recent Turian history”. The camera angles were carefully selected and edited to show no bodies. Half of the news was dedicated to dissecting the fact that the Investigator had outed himself as a biotic and how unpatriotic that was. Janora couldn’t wrap her head around such willful ignorance, so she continued to screen the room. 

An old gyroscope clock near the biometric ID scanner attracted her eye and made her do a double take. Turians were anachronistic, there was no way around that. Who would need an old analogue timepiece in a building if they were not some backwards nostalgist? Yet the dial worked effortlessly and elegantly, ticking away time in an insufferable rhythm. Her radiation suit itched and rode up in all the wrong places, on top of its air conditioning unit working about as well as a volus all you can eat buffet. She pulled up Arvin Eritrus’s file, then added her Spectre access codes for the juicy bits. He had better be worth the effort.


	13. Poking and prodding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard is starting to feel the strain of isolation in an alien world. It's a time of firsts: first signs of madness and first interactions with other turians.

Boredom is the mind killer. You can beat a person half to death, starve him, deprive him of water, but the easiest way to break someone’s spirit is through sensory deprivation. She’d learned that as part of her training, and re-learned it on the Saturn proving grounds. It was a fact of life, like military coffee was ersatz sewer drainage. 

Her cell was spacious enough, yet it featured virtually nothing aside from basic furnishings. The bed frame was white, the sheets were white, the table was white, the chair was white, the toilet was white, the sink was white, the walls were white, the light was white and white was the floor. Alone for two weeks on the proving grounds of Saturn, she’d had hope to cling to, a life beyond those morbid walls. It felt at all times like she were merely transiting. She had been, come to think of it, jettisoning from one planet to the other at speeds that would make her dead mother and father’s souls curdle.  
The outer-facing cell wall was semi-opaque, reflecting her movements back at her. From time to time, she would see glimpses of the aliens milling about her enclosure. She was certain that it had become somewhat of a zoo enclosure to their curious minds, a sideshow attraction from another planet. They were not bad to her and, what was more intriguing, they treated her with respect. Shepard knew that there were more species in the galaxy, that much Garrus had said, but she didn’t know how similar they were to turians or humans. Perhaps there was another simian analogue in the galaxy, which is why they stopped bothering her much after a short while. 

She began understanding bits and phrases of their language without her translator, but was unable to speak the words. Their anatomy made the language harsh, filled with guttural sounds offset by melodious trills. She tried once on a guard that came to take her to the bathroom. He stood rooted to the spot, stupefied into silence, until she stopped making sounds. 

Shepard wasn’t some retro-fantasist, but even she didn’t understand why a male guard came to take her to the bathroom. Once at the door, he’d handed her a square kit without a word, turned and posted himself on guard duty as if he were accompanying royalty. She twisted and turned the kit until it clicked and opened. Inside it were tools that could best be described as torture devices. There was a vial of oil of some sort, a rough, scratchy cloth, a fine, grainy powder and, the most puzzling of all, something that looked like it belonged in a dentist’s office. It was no use talking to the guard, he didn’t have a translator. She merely nodded to him and proceeded to make the best of the situation. At least her skin was properly exfoliated and hydrated now. 

They’d taken away her wristco and gave her instructional videos on the galaxy as seen through their catlike eyes, projected regularly on the small screen on the desk. There was a lot of talk about stoicism and the path of alter, the greater good and other things that Shepard felt were better suited to the communist East. The instructables were told in a simplified, almost childish language, with many metaphors and stories that backed up “how a dignified turian should act for the improvement of his people and the galaxy”. They were probably meant for schoolchildren. It dawned on her that she was the closest analogue to a galactic child they’d seen in their lives. 

She missed being touched, being with friends, but most of all, being a willing participant in a conversation. Her face had become familiar and repulsive to her altogether. Each line and groove was meticulously mapped and addressed, each new wrinkle stretched and pinched. On particularly bad nights, she felt transparent, as if her skin started shrinking until it could no longer do an adequate job of containing her innards. Slowly, imperceptibly, it had withered away and exposed the machine inside, organs floating about without any grace in an invisible sack. As she lay on the white bed, with its impeccably white sheets, reeds would extend out of her fingers and stretch towards the air vent, out through the pipes. They would shoot towards the sky and travel the vast universe, only to latch onto Earth and her home. Slowly, thread by thread, she would follow, until the only thing left on this planet was her empty heart. On some nights, she would get the trajectory wrong and end up surfacing in some forgotten closet or sink within the building. Then, she’d blink, slip out of her daze and think to herself that she must have gone insane, the type that not even a Section 8 could classify.

Her monotonous days were broken in three intervals, roughly associated with breakfast, lunch and the shrink’s visit. They must either not need to shower more than two times a week or have terrible olfactory sense. She couldn’t be certain, but she calculated that at least three weeks had passed since her last transfer. Her memories of the past month had been rearranged into a patchwork network of scrambled glimpses and faint murmurs she heard through glass. Back home it would be May by now...but it was useless to think of back home. Each passing hour made her chance of ever seeing her own rock again slimmer and slimmer. 

The shrink - if that was what she was or if turians even had such a thing - was friendly enough, in that cold, deferential manner she had come to associate with turians and north-European humans. She was one of a very short list of reasons why Shepard hadn’t truly went insane. At first she only came into her cell with a pair of guards that could almost hit their head on the ceiling, but she gradually relaxed into a friendly presence. Today, when the doors opened for the third time, she was alone. She had beautiful green eyes and a delicate frame, at odds with her vivid coloring. She must be very appealing to turians, considering the lovelorn looks one of the guards stole when he thought she was not aware. She was. 

“Good afternoon, Shepard miss.” they always got the order of the address wrong. Much like their affectations, their language seemed to be upside-down. 

“Good afternoon, Tela Hadia. Not even one boyfriend today?” 

“Boy-friend? You mean mate? I don’t yet have one. Is it customary in your culture to work together with your mate?” 

“No, I meant the guards.” she gestured towards the door, then raised her hand way above her head to indicate who she was talking about.

“No, I thought I’d speak alone with you today. I have this feeling you don’t like too many of us in the same cramped space.” 

“It has nothing to do with this particular space, don’t get me wrong.” 

She continued sipping on some tasteless nanofood left over from lunch. They’d stopped feeding her her own rations, replacing it with a protein paste that made the army packages taste like five-star cuisine. 

“How are you today?” the shrink asked, plopping herself uninvited on the chair and opening up her personal computer. 

“Trapped. How are you?” 

“I’m alright, thanks. Last time you were telling me about human social customs, if I remember correctly.”

“If that’s what you got out of it, sure.”

“Do you have a mate?” she insisted, trying to do that horrible approximation of a smile that their twisted faces thought they could make. 

“Are all of you turians so straightforward about other people’s personal lives?” 

“It might surprise you, but we don’t have much of a personal life after fifteen years of age and before the age of thirty. Fifteen’s when we muster into the army.” 

“All of you? It’s mandatory?” 

Hadia nodded. That was another oddity that Shepard noticed. They had an incredible capacity for patience and an unforgiving memory. Hadia would probably go on with the conversation if Shepard encouraged her, but she’d still pause from time to time and allow her to answer the question she’d been waiting for. 

“I had one, before him and his entire crew were killed.”

“He was one of the initial contacts? The ones who opened up the mass relays?”

Hadia’s fingers flew across the keyboard, her talons hidden beneath gloves. It was strange to see them trying their best to hide their predatory features. Who were they hiding it from? They were all turians here. 

“He was one of the initial victims, yes. He was in the process of communicating that they surrender in all the languages we knew. Before he died. That’s the last recording I have of him.”

“We’ve studied the escape pod you came in on and I hope it makes you feel better that we operate on different frequencies for our communications. Intragalactic law specifies that turian patrol ships have to respond to any distress signal, but they had no way of knowing and no translator, you see.” 

“How do you translate three hits to vital life support systems on an unarmored vehicle before any communication reaches you?” she sighed, making no eye contact. That was not entirely true. Each human ship was equipped with a number of probes that could double as nuclear warheads. The frigate Marseille managed to escape a turian patrol by pelting them with mini-nukes, before any other human knew the full extent of life in the galaxy. They hadn’t known their pursuers were turians, so the officers cursed up and down about the East bloc’s involvement. She hoped her message got through to the System Alliance, but with no way of knowing it, all she could do was wait. 

“I’ve upset you. I’m sorry. How are you settling in?”

Shepard groaned and turned away from the doctor, pacing the room. On most days, Hadia would offer to trade information, or barter for more details about the human species. Sometimes, she’d be clever about it and start with a story of her own, some whimsical little piece of turian behavior that piqued Shepard’s interest, but most of the times, she was as dull as paint and as obvious as a fresh cadet at graduation prom. 

Besides, the good doctor was one of those people. She usually entered into her cell with her weird, tight uniform and her cheery attitude plastered over her face. The other doctors she’d seen, the ones that took her physicals, probably couldn’t tell you how many arms Shepard had. Yet Hadia already knew how she preferred her tea. They also didn’t have that round pin on their breast, the one Hadia fidgeted constantly with, to the point that the paint had been shined away from the outer rim. No doubt the writing on it was an inspirational quote. That seemed to fit. But it was the only intelligent interaction she could look forward to, so she had developed an almost pavlovian reflex towards her visitation hours. 

“Can you tell me what happened on your ship? Why you were flying in turian space?” 

She sighed and prepared to remember. It was safe enough. 

“We were just a recon ship tasked with collecting planetary samples. We ran on a skeleton crew, 11 strong, including the commander.” 

Hadia didn’t say anything. Her face was unreadable. For once, Shepard wanted to fill the silence and talk to her. Her fingers fidgeted of their own free will. There was no better moment than the present, after all.

“Hadia, can I ask you something?” 

“Of course, Shepard.” 

“Did anything bad happen to Garrus Vakarian because of me?” 

“Ga...I’m sorry, Shepard, I can’t make out the name. Can you please speak closer to my translator?” 

Shepard inched forward, taking a seat facing Hadia. She felt vulnerable and exposed. She blinked and realised that she’d begun considering these aliens as people. She didn’t know what triggered this sudden realisation, but looking at Hadia, with her tough, leathery skin and her exposed exoskeleton made her think of a cat. She was no longer a fearsome creature, none of them were, but people made of flesh and bones. 

She thought often of Garrus. He risked contaminating himself to help her bury her friends and is now probably suffering the consequences somewhere, wondering what on Earth he was thinking. Except he wasn’t wondering what on Earth, he had never seen Earth or known the joy of warm New York days and cold glasses of wine. 

Hadia waited patiently for Shepard to compose herself. The computer monitor flickered off and she cast it aside. 

“Shepard, I’m not allowed to speak to you about that. But it’s a turian name, and a pretty important one, so I’m going to bite. Off the record. I only want you to answer one question: who is he to you?”

“No one in particular.” She lied, but it didn’t feel right. “He saved me on that planet I landed. I thought I was going to die, that you were going to kill me or eat me. Don’t look at me like that, I’m sorry for thinking that. It’s just that...” 

“We look frightening. I know. You’re still new to this, but it’s something of a running gag between Citadel races.” 

“Right, but I don’t think that anymore. He...well, I escaped. I thought that, since I was a gonner anyway, I might as well be buried with my friends. Except I didn’t know where they were. But I found where the wreck was and I...I wanted to die facing something familiar.” 

Hadia reached for Shepard’s hand. She didn’t pull back. Waves crashed over her head, the current yanking her under. She struggled to swim, hungry for air, but relented. Tears escaped the cage. 

“You’ve been through so much. You don’t know how relieved I am to see you start processing what’s been happening.” 

“He tried to help me. I need to know he’s safe, that something went right, for once.” 

Hadia went silent for a while. Her head hung low and her hand went limp. She seemed to have retreated to a different universe. 

“Spirits blast you, Hadia!” she muttered. 

She pulled up her omni-tool, fidgeted around a bit with that fascinating orange glow. Alien graphs came to light on the screen, scrolling away. Shepard was enthralled. Her brain salivated over that tiny bit of mental stimulation.

“I’ll be back.” She said and left, leaving Shepard alone in the whiteout. 

She shuffled her feet to the corner, where she slumped against the wall. Hadia didn’t return that evening, or the next day. On the third, the scientists studying her returned in full force, headed by a turian she hadn’t seen before. He had a different uniform, much more military and loosely fitting. For a human, that ensemble could have been pulled off only with a girdle. They were carrying the equivalent of a small laboratory in their arms, which they deposited on any available surface. 

“Shepard miss, you will soon be transferred to a different wing of the safehouse, one with access to a radiation-proof canopy over the gardens. You’re still an escape risk, but we’ve seen that your stress levels are steadily climbing the more we keep you here. The doctors believe you would do better with access to different surroundings. I apologise for not knowing enough to realise that.” 

“You had no way of knowing. Thank you.”

Those words, the first ones Shepard ever addressed to the science crew, startled the lot of them. Most probably had no translator, so they not only just heard her, but understood her as well through the soldier’s own omni-tool. A younger technician approached her with caution, his arms empty and relaxed at his side. His facial markings were not truly distinctive, she’d seen numerous similar designs, but his fringe was considerably shorter than the others’. At least, Shepard was pretty certain it was a he.

“Shepard miss, my name is Natos, I just wanted you to know it’s an incredible privilege to speak to you.” 

“That’s a funny way of putting it. Why would you be privileged?”

“Well, we haven’t had a new species in -” 

“That’ll do, Natos, please explain the reason for our visit.” the military-looking turian cut him off, to a fair bit of grumbling from the other scientists.

“Yes, of course, sir. Shepard miss, if you will allow us, we’d like to give you some vaccines for some of the more common diseases in the galaxy. We’ve tested everything on the samples you were kind enough to let us take, so they should be safe for you. We were able to adapt vaccines and some medicine from asari, but…”

“Natos, to the point.” 

“Natos, do we need seven people to give me a couple of shots?” 

“Well, no, but, you see...they’re here to observe and report back to each University department. There’s Mieke, from Xenoanthropology, Liva from Xenobiology, Artisemia from Xenomed, Bertus from Xenochem and Lateralus from Geology. I’m Natos, a tier 10 citizen med tech working under Arti.”

“Geology? Do I look like a rock?” she chuckled and some of the others found it funny enough to join in. 

“Well, Shepard miss, you don’t have an exoskeleton, so it’s easy to misunderstand. Turian geology evolved alongside medicine, considering our plates, as well as those of most animals on Palaven, are based on metals.”

She didn’t resist. She didn’t see the point of it. If they had wanted to kill her, they would have done so by now, and in far worse ways than poisoning. They left a short while after her inoculations were finished. Natos looked back at her just as he was exiting and made a sign behind his back. He crossed the two index fingers on each hand and moved them in a triangle shape with his two thumbs interlocked. Had she blinked, she would have missed it. She thought for a bit on what it could mean, but gave up. Nothing was ever of much consequence within these walls. 

Four days later, they moved her. The new cell was actually a small house with a decent garden full of greenery that she had no name for. Natos was there for her transfer, with Lateralus by his side. Shepard got the idea from watching them interact that they were good friends, if not lovers. Whenever Natos spoke, Lateralus seemed rapt, like he was the only point of light on the event horizon. His stocky frame and dark coloring only made his blue eyes shine more fierce. Natos walked the both of them around and showed Shepard how to use the utensils in the house, from turning up the light, down to how to flush the toilet. They finally came to sit in the equivalent of a day room, furnished in an approximation of the interior of the escape pod she’d flown in on Ostia. She felt dizzy with all of this colour and noise and stimulation around her. 

“Shepard miss, is anything the matter?” 

“No, Lateralus, I was just thinking about things...how long have you and Natos been together?” 

“Together!?” Natos choked the word, the final trill coming out in a wheezing whine. His jaws chittered as the dark leathery skin around his eyes narrowed.

“Too personal? Did I offend you?” she lowered her eyes, searching for a point on the ground and finding that all of the color was blinding her. “I’m sorry.”

Lateralus pointed to a flower in the garden and beckoned Shepard over. They all went out, where the guards stood like stone gargoyles on the stairs. There was something hieratic about their postures, as if they were frozen in time, worshipping the same streetlight in the distance.  
“These are all asari and batarian flowers, reverse-engineered so they won’t trigger allergies in you. Everything has been prepared for your safety.” 

“They’re beautiful. Will you tell me a bit more about the radiation canopy?” 

“Right. Important matters first. Natos and I are not mates, although now that you’ve mentioned it...” Lateralus paused, drinking in the image of Natos squirming. Shepard chuckled. The sound was foreign to her. Metallic and oily.

“But you’re so close.” 

“To you it might seem that way, but not to us. We turians grow up very close-knit. Sometimes, you spend more than thirty years getting naked in the shower in front of your best mate if both of you choose to remain serving in the army. Now, no one’s judging if you were a bit adventurous, but, as a rule, turian same-sex relationships are a small percentage of the overall population. We just don’t need as much personal space as other species. If it bothers you, we can adjust.” 

“Why am I being taught so much about turians? It makes no sense. I’m being studied like a lab rat, but I’m also being educated like you intend to parade me.” she sat up and jerked her shoulders, wishing the uncomfortable feeling away.

“I’m sorry, Shepard miss, we’re not…”

“Yes, not allowed to discuss. Neither of you are. But why can’t someone just come out with it already?” 

“No, it’s that we don’t know. We’re academics.” 

“What happened to Hadia?” 

In all of the commotion caused by the science team returning each day, she hadn’t found a good moment to ask anyone. They were just out of earshot of the guards, not that they didn’t try to eavesdrop. 

“Nothing, she applied for personal time. She’s up for a promotion to a superior citizenship tier for her recent work. She probably went back to the family homestead to celebrate.” Natos shrugged, poking a flower with his gloved hand. His finger came out fully covered in a fine blue dust. 

“It’s so odd, everything is wrong, just wrong. If aliens came to my planet, we’d be all over them. Politicians, actors, celebrities, bankers, everyone. Yet here I am, and your Primarch and Empire are miles away, pointedly ignoring me. What’s wrong with that picture?” she prodded, singling out Lateralus. 

“It’s not as simple as you think, Shepard miss. There are rules to follow and protocols to obey.” 

“What’s the point, Late? She deserves to know.” 

“Know what?” 

“It’s nothing, don’t trouble yourself.” he glanced back at the guards, who now shifted their sphynx eyes to them. “It’s time we go. If you need anything, let the guards know.” 

She watched them leave together, no longer arm in arm. Shepard lowered herself gently to the ground, stretching out her legs and arms on the cool earth. It smelled acid and dry, like watered sand. It was the most beautiful smell she had felt all month. The grass tickled her exposed stomach and the back of her knees, while the sun, filtered by the glass canopy, bristled her skin. The clothes they’d given her this time weren’t what she or any other self-respecting woman on Earth would wear, but she could not complain. Who in this galaxy still wore long, flowing skirts that brushed the ground in the front and exposed the back of the knees? Or two pieces strapped together by strategically placed belts? The bare midriff at least ensured that only her chest was flattened, not all of her organs. 

“Oh, Jane…where are you now?” 

She closed her eyes for just a moment, relishing the loneliness. When she opened them not a moment later, she was startled to see two pairs of eyes studying her with the concentration of predators. Shepard yelped and, against her better judgement, steadied herself on her elbow and thrust one hand in front of her. Pivoting to rest her weight on both hands she kicked as hard as she could behind her, knocking one of the aggressors flat on his back. 

“Shepard miss, we apologise.” the other guard, the one she hadn’t harmed, raised his hands. “We thought ya were sick. Ya fell and wouldn’t get up when we called ya.”

A rustle in the tall grass let her know that the first guard, with the quiet demeanor and the small, shrewd eyes, was quite alright. 

“I must’ve fallen asleep. Are you alright?” 

“Nothing chipped or broken, that’s for sure.” He grumbled and got up, brushing off the ignominy with studied movements. 

“Well, for a pinch-sized critter, she sure knocked the wind outta ya, Nerva.” 

“I’d like to be alone now. Will there be anyone else visiting me today?” she got up, looking at both of them in turns.

Shepard took another cautious step towards Nerva and the door to the house when she heard a disturbing mechanical whine above her. She crouched instinctively, bending her knees and turning her head looking for the source of the sound. The two turians showed no signs of apprehension. She straightened up. 

It was all a blur from there. The whining sound came closer, simultaneously coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. She turned around and around in a whirlwind of movement, covering her ears as the screech filled the space where silence and peace had left only a moment ago. Her hair got tangled, it filled her mouth, a vertigo of nauseating movement accompanied her frantic spinning until she could finally see it. Nerva had come up behind her, with a gentle hand on her shoulder. It paralyzed her, rooting her to a spot where an immense alien had just put a shovel-sized palm on her to, of all things, soothe her. I’m going mad.

“A motorcycle. Nothing more. We received note of another visit while you were still with the academics.” 

Dashing below and above other radiation canopies, along other houses and around the streetlights, a blue arrow sped towards them. The rider was impossible to make out, a haze of blue enveloping the body and whipping all around. It was an incredible feat of engineering, hovering at times above buildings or slightly below their rooftops, blitzing past obstacles eating the ground, a bullet flying at sickening speeds. 

It circled the building twice as it deccelerated, coming to rest on a small landing pad just outside the garden. She felt a small pang of regret seeing the female form dismount. 

“Shepard, hello!” Hadia’s voice came unaltered from the helmet. “How have they been treating you?” 

“Hadia! You’re back! Natos and Late said you were away.”

“The who? Nevermind, I have to speak to you.” 

She turned towards the guards and said something that was not translated for Shepard’s benefit. They looked apprehensive, but left their posts to stand at the end of the street, well away from them. Hadia took off her helmet and motioned for them to go inside. She had a hard time finding any surface on which to sit, so she just dumped some pillows on the floor and rested her bony frame on top.

“What’s going on?” 

“Spirits, I hate Palaven traffic sometimes. I have some news for you, but I’m not sure how much you’re going to like it. We have to speak low, I couldn’t convince the guards to go far enough. I’ll get straight to the point. Someone tried to assassinate Vakarian.”

“Oh God!”

“God? That’s an interesting concept, you never told me much about your religions.” 

“And now you ask me? 

“Right, professional curiosity. Sorry. He’s fine now, although he has no idea what he got himself into. They’re keeping him under close observation, looks like he’s in deep. His dad is pretty high up in the Hierarchy, so he has a chance of surviving this. I couldn’t get more info out of the extranet, everything is hush hush. I just hope we can protect you.”

“Protect me? Why?” 

“It’s not every day that you could trip up intragalactic politics by just showing up and being the most interesting thing on the galaxy right now. Enjoy the moment.” she smiled, rubbing her forehead with the palm of her hand. The smile didn’t extend to her eyes. 

“You know, I think this is the second time anyone joked with me on this planet. I was beginning to think humour would be a huge human export to the galaxy.”

“Half of our population is working in bureaucracy in some form and the other half is in the army. You tell me how many jokes you could make with that.” 

“Are you kidding me? That’s ripe terrain right there.” 

“I’d love you to tell me some jokes sometimes. When this all blows over, I hope you’ll remember me.” 

“I hope I’ll still be alive to tell the tale.”

Hadia crinkled her nose. Shepard noticed they did that when they didn’t like what they were hearing, but were too polite to protest. She left soon after, followed by the guards returning to their post. She was too tired for all of the feelings that coursed through her mind, asking for a splinter of her sanity. If nothing else, at least Garrus Vakarian was safe for the moment. At least she was safe.

Shepard fell asleep that night and dreamt of home.


	14. Too many words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arvin gets an unlikely visitor and a more expected one. A family connection is explored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh I missed you! I'd really like you to give me your best criticisms on the original characters, I'm learning so much from your feedback and from what you like / ignore. Love you for the support <3 
> 
>  
> 
> **Worldbuilding and dictionary references**
> 
>  
> 
>  _culina_ = a combined kitchen and living room, it is generally on an open floor plan, starting with the meat preparation area, which is always next to a ventilation method, and ending in the area reserved for serving the meal in a familial setting. 
> 
> _nethoi_ = nephew 
> 
> _tero_ = uncle 
> 
> _mero_ = aunt 
> 
> _fiera_ = feminine of fiero, it originally denoted a fierce warrior from the turian tribal era. Today it is used as a compliment to a person who is particularly strong and dedicated

It was a victory to stand up straight when the Spectre entered, one that would likely cost him another week in the regen field. His everything ached, either because it did, or the finger he used to prod himself with was broken. He’d heard about this one, which never boded well for Spectres in general. They were supposed to be the discreet strong arm of the council, whereas Janora V’naeri possessed about as much discretion as a hanar Enkindler parade. 

She ambled into the room, faking a lack of purpose until she was at the foot of his bed, grabbing the railings with gloved hands. Her gait told him everything he needed to know about exactly how many healing bullet holes she boasted at this particular moment. She was a master in the calculated way she put pressure on her gambs to relieve her thighs.

The hospital had a radiation canopy, which made her suit an unnecessary precaution. In any other alien, he'd attribute it to carelessness, but in her case, it was more likely to be a tactic - either to get him to underestimate her, or to conceal her face and body from scrutiny. Even in the best of lights, V'naeri was a pitifully small thing, short and lean in all but the most important places. Her red armor was accented with blue insertions and borders, dented and nicked in such a fashion that the paintjob more closely resembled overtired factory machines than a garment for a person of high rank in intragalactic affairs. 

"Spectre V'naeri, my respects. Excuse my rudeness, but my state won't allow for a proper salute." He gestured towards the regen field on his broken arm with a half-shrug.

"Investigator Eritrus. No need to monotone. Translator is diplomatic issue." She drew out the syllables, but did not continue. She seemed almost disinterested in his existence, as if he were a mere star mote on her windshield. Arvin obstinately kept silent. 

"How are you?" she said after a decent stretch, trailing her eyes on him. Her gaze pricked his body in all the wrong ways, exposed as he was in a half-state between undressed and naked. 

He had to give the alien credit. There was an air of tension around her, a moss of secrecy that was both enticing and repelling at the same time. Sculptors had probably achieved more lifelike specimens than her, but there was strength in this stone. 

"I've been better, but thank you for asking." 

"Why hide?" 

"Hide what?" he chirped innocently, wagging his mandibles in a comically exaggerated fashion. Even that hurt.

In response, she turned on the vidscreen in the room to the news, pointing to a replay of security cameras from the Admission office. He hoped the weight gain he saw was merely an effect of the cameras.

"Oh, that. Sabbatical reasons, you must know how it is. Abuse not thy powers." 

He tried to wave his other arm, but stopped midway as the pain became unbearable. His elbow was throbbing, the pain shooting up to his shoulder. V’naeri made no motion when his face screwed up in pain, either positive or negative. She waited until he was settled in bed again to come closer.

"Let me help."

She took off her headpiece and mask, revealing oblong eyes and a square face. There was no hint of what lay beneath the surface, as if a door had shuttered itself on a bunker. He almost jumped from the bed when she touched his arm and pressed her body closer, working the pillows underneath him. With expert grace, she puffed a pillow, rearranged another, pushed a couple of buttons and straightened the sheet. Once done, she retreated back to the foot of the bed, eyes intently trained on him. He let out a squeak of indignation, but it did not faze or even register with the single-minded V’naeri. 

"Been shot, survived explosions, collapsed buildings and hanar prostitutes with guns. Recovery is an art." she continued in her inflectionless, gravelly voice.

"Thank you, Spectre V’naeri, much appreciated. I’d like to hear more of your stories, but I know this is sadly not a social call. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?" 

"Not rejecting of me being a Spectre. Interesting."

“Not rejecting of me being a turian biotic. Just as interesting.”

Janora nodded towards Arvin. 

“The boy.” 

“What boy?” 

“Marcus.” 

He feigned an indifference he did not feel and restrained himself from looking out the window. 

"He'll make it. And so will you." 

"My doctors have informed me of the same thing, yes."

“Risked your life and reputation for aliens. Very uncharacteristic of you.” 

“I risked my life and reputation to stop terrorists attacking civilians. It doesn’t matter what species they are.” 

“But it does, to you.”

She pulled up an already open datapad and gingerly handed it to him, making sure the grip would be comfortable.

“What do you know of Facinus?” 

“I’m C-sec, not Turian military, so I’m afraid not much. I don’t see how they’re of interest to the Council. Not so much that they would send one of their very best here.” 

He put the datapad aside, on the bedside table, having only given it a cursory glance. 

“Rumors. Infiltrated Council and C-sec positions. Influencing turian politics. Problem to stability of triumvirate rule if turians isolate.”

“You’re being incredibly frank, which is an interesting interrogation tactic. One I’ve used previously to great success. What subject do you really want to touch upon?” 

“Nelina Varihierax. Old friends, you and her.” 

“Nelina has been my friend since mustering in, yes. But I fail to see how she’s connected to this.” 

“Her funds might be. Difficult to trace, but not impossible. Are you?” 

“Connected to Facinus? That’s an interesting thought you entertain. Nelina is a person of great importance to the Empire. She’s under so much scrutiny in her professional and private life that the idea is simply laughable.” 

“You’ll be put to trial for hiding biotics.” 

“Yes, but I fail to see why that factors into your investigation.” 

“It doesn’t. You hid your implant by wearing high collars. Clever tactic. Stupid to need it.” 

“Insulting turian customs and laws on Palaven is not wise, Spectre V’naeri.” he growled, much to his surprise. He had never cared much about turian customs, least of all traditional ones. 

“Don’t care about any customs and laws. Not when they’re absurd.” 

She fell into a deep silence, both arms still calmly resting at the foot of his bed. If anyone came in to look at them now, they’d see two granite statues staring intensely just a few centimeters away from each other's’ face. V’naeri was unnerving. Keep focused.

“Lack of respect for life and property are the best hallmarks of a Spectre, they say.” 

“Heal well, Investigator. Read your mission report from Ostia. Must have been tiring protecting such sensitive secrets. And now this. Looking forward to the official report to the Council.” 

“Spirits bless your path, soldier. I’m sorry I could not help.”

“You’ve done more than that.” 

She clipped her headgear on, verifying the seals with deft hands. By way of goodbye, she lifted her right hand and raised it to her chest, bowing slightly in the siarist salute. As the doors opened in front of her, the entire atmosphere of the room was escaping, one molecule at a time. Arvin’s bed had become a rickety canoe in the endless ocean on a strange planet. And the canoe was leaking.

Her terse, clipped sentences reminded him of his mother in all but kindness. His own father was a strict and joyless man whom Arvin avoided at each turn of their domus, but his mother...oh, his mother was the dew that made the wildflowers grow. Seen together, even on the execution stand, they were like two separate worlds holding hands, bridging a gap that no other spacecraft could transcend. People whispered that they could never understand why the soft spoken Licinia would ever stand by Spurius in bonding, who would give up his essence to the Universe as one of the most vocal separatists on Taetrus. 

There was a time when Arvin himself had wondered why. He always came home from school to a culina full of the most wonderful scents just waiting to jump on him and lure him into her domain. She would let him run towards her, feet pattering on the cool marble floor until he was within arm’s reach and then she would scoop him up, spinning and spinning him until he fell to a fit of giggles. His mother smelled of tupo berries and freshly crushed lamia leaves, just enough that no one could tell if it was perfume or simply her smell. She did not speak much, but the few words she did, she reserved for her little fledgling. The running joke amongst their enemies was that Licinia gave up the words she had so that her husband could flutter his mandibles wider. The truth was that she did not need to let air travel through her syrinx, she communicated better through gestures and kindness.

Spurius, as far as Arvin was concerned, had never felt joy in his life, or even the ghost of merriment stealing up on him unawares. Some men are chosen to be a hastatim, he was simply born for it. Feared and ostracized by the rest of the turian military, his father had risen quickly in the hastatim ranks, prey to his ambition and unquenchable thirst for power. What power he had gained, he used to gather favor for the separatists in Vallum. Arvin’s first memories of his father were of a half-lit room full of maps and strange turians looking at his father with reverence and respect. On those nights his mother brought them kava and tea and made sure that Arvin was put to bed early. He was not allowed to go into his father’s office for any reason ever, lest he disturb the carefully laid out schematics, maps and figurines. He had wanted so much to play with the little tanks and amphibious figurines, but he knew better than to risk his patri’s wrath.

At first he had blamed his father for being left adrift in the world as a clanless orphan, but the Hierarchy’s orphanages beat out of him all of his mother’s kindness and replaced it with hardened steel. An orphan and the son of convicted felons, he finally understood why his father hated the false meritocracy they lived in.

He pushed those thoughts aside when his omni-tool rang, alerting him of a vidcall marked urgent. 

“Thero, they won’t let me visit you. Please, I need to see you.” Parthen’s voice broke twice in the space needed to say these words. “They won’t give Lil’s body back, they’re saying she’ll be buried as a traitor. And now they won’t let me see you, say you’re some kind of traitor too.” 

Arvin’s fringe flattened in response to the churning in his stomach. In the background of Parthen’s vid he saw the hospital’s park through glass. Anatholis flowers bloomed a sickly yellow amongst the bold green bushes, reaching out their tentacles to grab onto the glass. 

“Parthen, slow your pace. Are you in the reception?” 

“No, I’m outside your patient wing.” 

“Wait right there. I’ll talk to the guards.” 

He shut the vidlink off and took a closer look at his room. The only halfway decent article of clothing was a hospital robe draped over a chair. Methodically, he took five seconds to calm his breathing, then another five to mentally go through the steps he needed. 

One: tap the release code for the regen field. Swear profusely - and internally - as the soothing currents fizzled out to the full measure of pain.  
Two: hack into the IV distributor, convincing it to give him a triple dose of painkillers.  
Three: count to ten, until he could no longer feel the alienness of the medicine drops invading his bloodstream.  
Four: hoist himself out of the bed, fall face-forward and to the side on his bad hip. Remember Lina’s joke about him being half-cyborg already.  
Five: grab the chair and get up, taking the robe with him. 

“Well, that could have gone a whole lot worse.”

“Investigator, please return to your bed. You are not cleared to leave.” 

The burly guard stationed at his door peeked his head into the room, most likely alerted by the ungodly sounds made by the medical machinery. A nurse stood by his side, much more frightening in appearance than the guy with two guns strapped to his thighs. 

“My...my best friends’ son is in great distress. His sister has just passed away. I need to talk to him. He’s outside, but is being refused entrance.” he pleaded, deliberately pitching his tone a bit higher.

“Well why didn’t you ask? It’s visiting hours!” the nurse scoffed, angling her mandibles downwards, as if speaking to a child. After a while, all professions get to you. He could not help wheedling and cajoling his way around, much as the nurse was used to people saying “please” and “thank you” along with their requests. 

“Tela, Pel Eritrus is under strict surveillance. We’re not allowed to let anyone in or out. CipSec is not sure those were the last of the insurgents.” 

“Well you let that damn asari in to interrogate him, didn’t you? Or does that order only extend to people he wants to see?“ 

Arvin bit down on his words, turning towards the guard with soft, predictable steps. 

“Pel...what’s your name?” 

“Caius, sir.” 

“Caius, please, I will only be a moment. The poor fledgling was incredibly close to his sister. His parents are wonderful people, but very busy. I’ve been somewhat of a guardian to him all my life and he needs me. I would be so grateful if you gave us just five minutes.”

The gold-speckled guard’s mandibles chittered a bit, smacking his upper incisors rhythmically. Arvin recognized the turian’s inner machinations that took him from refusal to indecisiveness. In a split second, his brow plates relaxed and his face assumed a mask of mild displeasure. 

“Fine. You have five minutes, but I can’t let you out of my sight or else my liver will be fried for dinner.”

Arvin decided that once you moved to pull a nathak’s tail, might as well punch it in the mouth.

“He’s deathly afraid of hospitals, especially hospital machines. If the nurse could maybe give me a gravchair to go to the lobby, I promise I won’t cause any trouble.” 

The nurse huffed and puffed, but brought the chair regardless. Arvin despised pleading, but appealing to the heart was guaranteed to bring him more success than fighting. The guards he could deal with, they were no more than peons obeying orders. The nurse, however, was something else entirely. As she activated the mass effect fields, he noticed an opaque plastic box nestled behind the chair’s seat. He decided not to ask about it as he lowered himself down. 

“Thank you.” 

It felt like Empires had risen and fallen in the time it took him to exit his room in the gravchair’s agonizing pace. The nurse kept pace besides him, her eyes skittering about, sliding over other furniture and obstacles in their path. No doubt she could have navigated this hallway, with all its medical lockers and dispensaries, its septic smell and death clinging to the painted walls, with her eyes closed. He wanted to quip about their speed, but Arvin was just grateful he didn’t have to use his own legs. Another week in the regen field would drive him up the wall. 

“If I were to guess, escorting people in gravchairs is probably the only time you get to rest, hmm?” he ventured once they were outside of the guards’ hearing range.

“We all take our rests whenever and wherever we can, Pel Investigator. As I get old, the Nizaris wind is no longer as kind to me as it was when I was young.”

His heart sank. Their eyes met and the nurse simply nodded, straightening out some wrinkles from her pressed uniform. He now noticed how pristine it was, hardly in keeping with the middle of a twelve hours shift. He should have noticed it was the wrong time for shift change. She lowered herself next to his aural canal, feigning the need to adjust the miniature mass effect engine. She smelled like fresh steel and amber, an overwhelmingly sweet and tangy smell. As her body came closer, heat transferred from her mandible to his neck, a downy, feathery touch completely at odds with her stern, sexless appearance.

“Sora needs to speak to you. Your clothes are in the box, along with elastic bandages, painkillers and stims. There’s the bathroom. You’ll get dressed and I’ll escort you out through the back door.” 

“And the guards?” 

“They will receive their orders to release you from observation shortly. The Primarch is also interested in talking to you, on Sora’s recommendation. Time is running short, we have to hurry. I will have to drop the disguise soon, frater.”

“Thank you, Tala...?” 

“Dia. Chapter Inculus. You have military grade stims and medicine in there, some of them containing reconstruction nanites - they will deal with your injuries much faster than an old-fashioned regen field.” 

“I see.” he couldn’t help the bitterness that seeped into his tone. Nelina was incurring unacceptable risks by dragging their son into this and exposing other chapters. If Dia noticed his indisposition, she did not let on or pry further. Her name in this situation was a burner, much like her uniform.

She navigated the gravchair to the men’s bathroom, stopping it in front of a stall. Her hand extended towards him and he gladly took it, leaning into it so he could get up. He took two shaky steps towards the inside, steadying himself on the rickety door. When she made a move to enter with him, he barred her way with his arm. Arvin lifted his eyes to stare into her glass shards challengingly.

“It will be my last day on this world when I have someone else dress me. No offense.”

“None taken. Here, take these first.” 

She handed him two pills and a stim injector filled with hungry nanites waiting to rearrange muscle and bones. The thought of a foreign body travelling in his bloodstream made him shiver. He accepted the medicine and closed the door. 

Locked in his cramped stall, he pondered his options as he extricated his pants from the box, settling the pills and injector on top of his undergarment. He did not exclude the possibility that the nurse was a CipSec trap, a member of an enemy faction or worse, part of the Primarch’s private retinue. There was always the risk that his chapter would be exposed or infiltrated and he had learned to budget for it. 

On the one hand, she offered freedom and a duty towards Nelina. What would the other hand hold? And how much could she be trusted? He activated his omnitool and used it to scan the medicine, but found nothing amiss there. They were exactly what she said they’d be. Just as he was about to shut it off, it issued a soft vibration, pulling up the spy program alert. With a heavy heart, he used his better arm to rummage through the rest of the box, scanning each item individually. He could hear the fake nurse pace outside, moving from one end of the room to the other with calculated steps. Her footfall echoed in the tiled room, ringing in his ears.

He took his tunic out, then his socks, then his jacket and, when he had nothing in the box save his shoes, the omni beeped again. He inspected each lace and latch, using his talon to clasp and unclasp them. When he checked the boot’s ankle spur attachment, a small bead fell on the floor, rolling away from him. Arvin set his foot down gently and trapped it, trying not to think of the million of bacteria he was incurring by walking around barefoot in a hospital bathroom. 

His mood picked up when he recognized it for what it was, a Spectre issue listening device specifically tailored for turian anatomy. It had only now been activated, when he had touched it with his bare skin. He’d not been wrong about V’naeri, subtlety was as foreign to her as elcor mating rituals were to him. Her life as a Spectre blunted her to the possibility that her targets are not merely walking crosshairs, but active players on the board, with their own goals. 

He flushed the microphone, taking great pleasure in imagining the Spectre recoil upon hearing a cascade of noise in her earpiece. In truth, she would not be listening to this herself, but have a VI parse it for important keywords, but a maris could dream, couldn’t he? 

“Pel, you need to hurry up.” the nurse stopped her pacing in front of his stall, knocking gently in a three-one-three pattern, the Facinus code for imminent danger. Even without her signalling it, he had picked up on her changing the style of address.

“Yes, I’m almost done, Tela.” 

He put his undergarment on slowly and began palpating his remaining clothes, focusing especially on the seams and the joinings. He found the secondary listening device hidden in the flare of his jacket sleeve. This one was undetectable by normal omnitool software. Still a crude measure of deception, but one that must have cost V’naeri a great deal of her brainpower. Arvin left that one on as he finished dressing and injected the nanobots into his arterial vein. He kept the pills for later. 

Before he exited the stall, he knocked on the door twice in rapid succession, once with his knuckles, then three times with each of his talons. “Eavesdropper possible”. If the nurse was indeed Facinus, she’d have to know this signal, although it was almost never used in a world where omni-tools and speaker distance were the norm. She stopped her pacing immediately. By the rustles that followed, she was adjusting her uniform. 

The cheery face and the bubbly voice that greeted him when he opened the door threw him off for a second. It was as if Dia, or whoever this was, had smashed her face in and remade the mould on the spot, lifting her browplate a bit, angling her eyes upwards and gathering her mandibles closer and higher in a friendly smile. 

“Pel, I’m so glad you’re alright. I was beginning to worry about you. You shouldn’t overtax your body like that.” 

“Thank you, I’m not used to having grenades go off in my face. Can we please go see my nephew? I’m done here.”

She chuckled earnestly, as if he had told the funniest joke she’d ever heard. Her laughter fell in rivulets, a multimodal delight. He had seen vestalas cave-singing when he was younger and the sound of their voices echoing off the walls, returning as four distinct reflections back to the captivated listener, paled in comparison to her lingering peal of bells. Despite this, she still smelled of termination and bottom lines.

“Of course. I bring good news. You’ll be discharged earlier than anticipated. The doctor felt that you can recover better at home, so we’re assigning you a caretaker to drop by twice a day and help you out with the bandages and basic tasks. My colleague has your exit papers prepared in the nurses’ office. Would you like me to call a skycar for you? Or will your nephew take you home?”

“No, thank you, Tela. That will be alright. I’ll ask my nephew to take me.”

“Very well, Pel Eritrus. Ah, I'm so terribly sorry for not mentioning, but you scored a bit low on your post-traumatic mobility test. You will have to return in a week to see the Rheumatologist for your hip. Normally you'd still be in the hospital by then, but with so many other patients from this terrorist attack...well, you know.”

“I see. I'm not getting any younger, true.”

The edge of his fringe bristled hearing her speak. The message was abundantly clear: follow orders, or else. Much like a cave-maiden, she had found the perfect resonance wall and positioned herself heedless of the the rocks precariously vibrating above her. There was a prescience surrounding her, a sigh held in for so long, that it had spurted roots in her chest and prevented her from breathing properly. She knew this was her last mission. Arvin hoped she had made her peace and prepared to depart gracefully.

He half-limped, half-waddled to the chair and hopped on to the creaking protests of the small inertial dampeners compensating for his weight. She took control of the machine, gliding it along the rest of the corridor, past other doors that looked suspiciously like props in a bad Hierarchy propaganda movie. He expected actors to burst forth at any moment, rehearsing a particularly tricky scene where the main character sacrifices himself for the good of all.

A flimsy glass wall separated him from the chaos of vidcams and reporters jostling for a bit to chomp. They stood hungrily in front of the hospital entrance with their beady eyes and their feverish corders, hoping to get more information on the “alleged turian C-sec officer who broke Section IV.g, Title 5, Chapter XX of the Unified Turian Treaty on Genetic enhancements and Biotics”. An even flimsier set of doors separated him from his son. They felt like concrete walls. 

“I take my leave, Pel. Live well!”

“And you, Tela. And you. I shall remember you.” 

He might have been mistaken, but he thought he saw regret in those clear gray eyes, though dwelling on it would definitely not bring him any benefit. In a blink she disappeared through a secret corridor which even he would not have suspected existed. She was gone. 

His son sat on one of the chairs in the empty waiting room, made all the more bleak by its lack of occupants. On the opposite wall a Tupari vending machine lay next to a snack machine, waiting for its next customer. Amongst the neat rows of orange chairs and the unintrusive plants, the abstract paintings and the flickering light from one of the broken neons, his son looked like wrongly lit CGI, a piece of the scenery whose opacity had not been done properly.

Parthen was still wearing his work uniform, overlaid with the paint-stained apron Arvin had given him as a gift. Looking at him now, the skin around his alert amber eyes had turned dark and sallow. He seemed intent on the energy drink in front of him, holding his head in his hands and flexing his mandibles. His whole body shook, wracked by tremors from his sharp, rapid breathing. 

Arvin slid off of the gravchair on shaky feet and padded the rest of the way, grimacing as he settled in the uncomfortable chair next to his Parth.

“Parth, netoi!” he enveloped his son in a strong embrace, careful to give him ample breathing space.

“Thero Arvin!” 

That was all that Parthen managed to say before a hiccup overtook him and he let the drink roll to the floor, spilling its guts on the laminated floor. Arvin stroked his back rhythmically, just as he did when he was no longer than his forearm and had a bad tummy ache.

“I’m so sorry, Parth. Your sister, she…we’ll find a way to hold a proper ceremony for her.” 

“Please don’t leave me, too. They’re saying you’re a traitor and you’ll be marked for intervention.” He choked at the mention of the sentence. His breathing accelerated. He swiftly sat up and began pacing the room, his hands moving to touch his fringe, then his neck, to finally twirl his fingers and shake his hands. He swivelled to look at Arvin, who kept purposefully still. His chest rose and fell in gurgling breaths, eyes wide and glittering with fear. “Spirits, it’s so stuffy in here, I can’t breathe.” 

“Parth, it’s ok, you’re safe with me. Let’s try breathing together, do you want that?” 

Parth turned to him and keened, a thin, meek sound. “I can’t breathe, thero. I don’t want to die, too. I don’t want you to die or leave me.” 

Arvin stood up and forced the pain back down, parcelling it and reserving it for a later date, a trick he had learned from his mother. His every node and nerve blared displeasure, but he merely applied a film over it and let it settle until ice suffused his entire being. He measured his steps until he got to Parth, taking his head in his hands and forcing him to look into his eyes. Arvin dropped his forehead until it touched Parth’s. He began humming and purring in a soothing rhythm, the vibrations transferring to his son.

“Breathe in with me, child.” he counted up to five in his head “Breathe out with me.”

A few minutes passed with the only noise being their inhalations and exhalations, until Arvin felt Parth stop shaking. 

“Do you have your medicine with you?” 

Parth nodded, but did not make a move to take them. 

“Let’s get you home.” 

“But they said you were badly injured. Wait, you’re in your officer clothing. What’s going on?” 

“Shh, Parth, don’t overexert yourself. It’s just that there were too many patients to treat and I was transferred to outpatient care. I’ll have a nurse checking up on me at home. I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me, I’ve got tougher chitin than that. Do I look badly injured to you?” he smiled and let go of his son’s head, giving him the necessary space and freedom to deny he had had another panic attack. 

“I can help bring you groceries and stuff.” 

“I’d rather that stuff be another one of your beautiful paintings. I seem to remember I was promised a fantastical rendition of the Temple Palaven.” he said and cherished the momentary glow on Parth’s face. 

“Lil, did she...did she really turn terrorist? Why?”

“Terrorist is a word born out of fear of the unknown. What you need to remember is that your sister was an ambitious young fiera. We'll make it through this, you'll see. You're stronger than you give yourself credit for.” 

“If you say so. I’m just...going to...I miss her. C’mon, let's get you to your hotel, you must be exhausted. I'm really sorry about earlier.” 

“No worries, kid. But I'd like to see your mom, too. She can't be taking this too well.” 

“She hasn't surfaced from her room in days. It's office-bed, bed-office and maybe some meetings at home. She might not want to see anyone.”

“I won’t insist, just drop you off at home after I change my clothes.” 

Parth seemed on the brink of opening his mouth when a guard came out of the patient wing and made a beeline for them. He was rather short for his profession, but what he lacked in height, he more than made up for in determination.

“Investigator Eritrus, I'm here to escort you to your skycar.”

“But I didn't order any skycar.”

“We took the liberty of reprogramming your escort’s.”

Parth protested, but it lacked any real substance. They followed the man in blue down a series of corridors and back rooms that all looked the same. Parth’s head swung from side to side at each hallway intersection, but he did not stop. Once or twice he asked Arvin if they were moving in a circle, but the guard’s snickers put a stop to that line of questioning. The last door they passed through looked just the same as the first, only it opened onto a balcony flushed with greenery of all shapes and sizes. The landing pad could barely accommodate a skycar, but there it was, motor already firing and ready to go. 

Arvin dismissed the guard with a salute and counted the steps he still had to walk the car. His legs felt like lead beneath him as they throbbed and pulsed. He shook his head when Parth offered his hand.

“I’m not that old, kid. But this time, I’ll let you drive.” he smiled wanly and got in, shifting and turning his body in such a way to minimize the pain. 

Parth looked over to Arvin and shook his head. He keyed the car, going through its safety checks before lifting off into a traffic corridor. Soon they were downtown and zipping past the other cars, headed for the Prosperitatis district, where Parth parked the car with the ease of experience onto Arvin’s apartment building. Once Parth was out of the car, Arvin felt up his jacket sleeve, cautiously, then reconsidered and left the tracker there. Despite his protests, he felt light headed and the pain of the nanobots working their magic had drenched his tunic. He would have to take the medicine soon, although he feared he would not have the energy to resist falling asleep if he did. He leaned on Parth a bit too much on their way to the room. 

Once Arvin had settled in the chair by the dresser, Parth paced the whole length of the room as if he’d hoped to bore a hole through the heavy tile. Arvin began undressing, careful to avoid snagging the bandages or using his lame hand. It took him a while to take off his jacket, cursing at all of the clasps and buckles in turian clothes. They really made no sense for a species that had so many irregular angles and protrusions. He folded each item of clothing neatly on the bed while Parth took out a new suit at his request. 

“Thero, how are you feeling?”

“Like an elcor stampede just rammed me into the nearest biotic detonation training grounds.” 

“No, I meant, how are you really feeling?” 

“I missed you. And I... I miss Lil. We’ll sort this out, we have to.” Arvin sighed and got up, picking his clothes and dropping them in the garbage chute. “Your sister never would have gotten into C-sec if I hadn’t filled her head with tall tales.” 

“I’ve never seen Lil happier than when you told her you’re proud of her. And I always wondered why you weren’t more upset when it turned out she was a biotic. Most of mom and dad’s other friends pretended like she was dead after that, only asking about me. Why didn’t you…?”

“Tell you? Only two people knew the truth about my biotics, your mother and father. It would have destroyed my career, as it did Lil’s life. Biotics are a blessing for asari and a curse for turians and I never wanted to use them.”

Parth stopped.

“My father always knew.” 

Arvin took no notice as he rifled through his suitcase, mumbling as he unloaded each article of clothing and technology on the bed. The sleek metal exterior of the casing shone in the fluorescent light as Arvin inspected every pistol mod he had brought with him before discarding it. 

“What are you looking for?” Parth finally ventured, intrigued by his uncle’s silence. 

“My omnitool.” 

“But you have it on your wrist.” 

“That one’s C-sec issue. I want my civilian omni. Ah, there it is!” 

“Huh, I didn’t know you had two omnitools. Isn’t that frowned upon in C-sec?” 

“Do you think Intel enjoys reading every cadet and grunt’s steamy romantic messages? On second thought, don’t answer that.”

He placed his C-sec omni on the nightstand and attached the other one, checking that it fit snugly. If his C-sec omni had been cracked, Janora would have no way of listening in to his conversations on this one.

Parth stared at the clothes on the bed. He kept touching his family markings and tracing the red whorls with the tip of his finger. Compared to his hand, the delicate lacework of intricate arrows and signs seemed out of place.

“What’s wrong, fledgling?”

“Nothing, let’s get you to see mom.” 

They left in Parth’s skycar, heading northwest towards the Dives district. As they glided along, austere business buildings gave way to parks, multi-tiered terraces and a blend of organic and artificial the likes of which only the rich on Palaven would afford. Arvin hated this district. It was a stark reminder of all the decadence, weakness and moral failings the privileged class enjoyed. 

On Palaven, displaying wealth was frowned upon; precious metals and family heirlooms were kept in private rooms, away from the prying eyes of visitors. As such, the buildings were not imposing or lavishly decorated, but the greenery was the key to clue you in that this was money turf. Who else would afford to keep plants watered and fresh in the harsh radiation, unless they had an expensive water filter and shielding system? Other than that, the most turians conceded to vanity was an individual style of dress that each citizen was free to wear outside of their work. Diplomats, politicians and government officials were allowed more freedom in their attire. Birds of colored plumage, they’d be called, although not to their faces. 

Arvin remembered a funny tale about an asari socialite who had been invited by the Makeir family to the grand inauguration of their family vault. He decided to recount it to Parth. Arvin had been roped in as a “diplomatic gesture” by C-sec, which meant that the Executor didn’t have the patience to hear the inane drivel of the galactic riche. 

The family had filled the solarium with plants to the brim. The vault was designed exclusively for entertaining aliens, every nook and cranny inlaid with lead cross-sections over which they had plastered stucco decorations. All of the other turian guests were in awe, and even Arvin had to grudgingly admit it was breathtaking: the leaded glass greenhouse continued into a covered courtyard adorned with multicolored gem rocks from the South Peaks. They had been chiselled and carved into seats and sofas on which the host had placed cushions and pillows fit for all species. 

In the middle of it all, a small pond had been installed, overflowing with filtered water and fish that an ichthyologist had probably spent his life studying to determine the perfect ecosystem. On her first drink, no less, the asari maiden simply scoffed and said “this looks like some cave my mother would donate to a charity order”. 

Parth snickered. 

“Thero, that’s speciest.” 

“Hey, turian society was built on a healthy foundation of racism, planetism and speciesm. You look at me straight and tell me the Unification War was a squabble about what type of flowers each planet wanted to plant in front of the Primarch’s office and I’ll tell you to stop talking out of your ass.”

“It’s funny, when I was a fledgling, I thought the Unification War was unbelievably brutal and unwarranted, but I loved playing the simulator games.” 

“Didn’t we all?” 

“Yeah, but when I was a teen, I thought it was just another symbol of how thoroughly cawed in the head turians are - you know, how we mark ourselves to basically say ‘I’m better than you, I come from Mycenea’ or Corrinthus or Invictus or so on, while we completely ignore the fact that there’s hundreds of cultures and subcultures bubbling and bursting under the surface. I met this girl - yeah, I know that look, can it, she’s just a friend - and she’s told me about this separatist movement she had joined, Forsus, Faria, something like that and how these guys are supposedly going to free us all from oppression. I told her the only oppression I see was citizen tier number 1 to 27.” 

Arvin pricked up his ears midway through Parth’s rant and, by the end, had begun squirming. He was unsure how much of it was due to the skycar’s mass effect fields thumping and vibrating. He moved his head to look at Parth, focusing on the disdainful way he moved his mandibles and the narrowing of his eyes. Arvin made an effort to seem impartial.

“And you ask yourself why you’re single, kid. Although, you know, this girl sounds like trouble. Maybe you should have reported her. You don’t want to be associated with her type.” 

“So was Lil. And now she’s going to be buried in some mass grave for traitors.” he sighed and shook his head.

Parth brushed Arvin’s hand off his shoulder and focused intently on the road ahead, despite the autopilot being engaged. For the first time in his life, Arvin could not read him, or understand what was going on. 

“Do you want to talk about it? You know I’m always here.”

“You know, that’s actually true, you’ve always been here for Lil and me. More than Nelina and Caelax, for sure. Before Lil went and created this mess, I got a message from her. Here, I’ll activate it on my omni, since it’s the first goddamn window that’s always open when I unlock it now.”

“Parth, you don’t have to…”

“No, you should read it. Here it is.” 

He didn’t dare skim through it, despite wishing he could just look away. There was still a part of him that could not accept the truth yet. 

_Parth, I’m so close to a promotion I can almost touch the chevrons on my vest. I still have something to do before I get there and it might be kind of dangerous. I already have everything in place, and I have to say, it beats boring C-sec stings by a mile. Don’t believe anything you hear - if I fail, it will be a shitshow. Don’t worry, I won’t. I’m not going to make you an accessory, so I’ll keep everything on the hush-hush. By the time you get this message, I’ll be on my way to being a general and back on Palaven. I love you and Nelina, but if this fails, please tell dad I always looked up to him.”_

“Parth, have you taken this to the authorities?” 

Arvin turned his head left and right, as if to ensure that no other traffic participant had seen the message. It was a useless gesture, no one could have possibly peered into the car.

“I would have, but then something caught my eye. Lil never called dad by anything other than his given name. Neither of us did. So I kept thinking to myself - what if she wanted to tell me something else? And I started doing some digging of my own, but I didn’t get anywhere. I was almost convinced I was losing my mind because of grief, but then...today happens.” 

“Today?” Arvin straightened his neck, craning it to get a better view of Parth. 

“Yeah, today. Have you ever studied biotics? Spirits, lady, watch how you’re driving!” Parth took the control and swerved the car to avoid a skyvan filled with multiple small hellions back from or going to their clawball practice. Although it had been no more than a small jolt, Arvin closed his eyes in pain and struggled to keep his food down. His arm and leg had moved past the point of throbbing pain and into diffuse burning. “Anyway, as I was saying, well, asking - have you ever read up on biotics? I mean, sure you did.” 

“Parth, please pass me that bottle of water.” Arvin gestured to the bottle holder with his lame hand, while the other was rifling through his pocket for the pain pills. 

“Spirits, are you alright, thero? I’m so sorry, she came out of nowhere. Do you need me to stop for a while?” 

“No, no, go on. I’m ok. The sedatives are wearing off a bit, but I have my medicine here.” he smashed the two pills with his teeth, chasing them down with greedy gulps of fresh water, draining the bottle dry. He leaned back and closed his eyes as an almost instantaneous feeling of relief washed over him. Dia had given him the good stuff.

“They shouldn’t have discharged you, you don’t look good.”

“I’m fine, really.” he mumbled “I’ve been in worse pain in boot camp. What do biotics have to do with this mess?” 

“Well, I looked it up before I came to visit you. Did you know that there’s no real genetic transmission of biotics? Like, if a parent had it, there’s literally zero chance that it gets passed on to the kid?”

“Ho-hum. I see where this is going, Parth, and I have to say, your mother would never have endangered your sister by exposing her to element zero!”

“No, listen to me, I’m getting somewhere else. See, there’s one small inconsistency here. And I think I finally figured it out. What if Lil was not referring to Caelax in the message?” 

Arvin’s body stilled, his muscles contracting into fine filaments of raw electricity. When he’d been a little fledgling, he’d played at skirting the South Peaks chasm, as did all Cipritine younglings when they were old enough to buy a skybus ticket on their own. The chasm was not endless, despite what countless generations of hormonal teenagers passed on, but the volcanic ash buttressing it muffled all sounds of rocks and items thrown at it. He was now waiting for the drop. 

“What makes you think that?” he ventured.

“The University of Thessia did a study a couple of years ago about amplifying genetic markers in biotic sensitive cross-generational populations.” Arvin stared unblinkingly, to which Parth coughed, in lieu of an apology. “Academic mumbo-jumbo, you know how it is. The gist is they found that, while biotics aren’t genetic, if a parent has it, each kid has a 50-50 chance of being more sensitive to eezo exposure.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“What I wanted to say was that I think I’ve always known. And so has Lil. You’re a great dad, you know?” 

“How long have you known?” he asked, though his voice wasn’t quite right. His mind wasn’t quite right, either. He was stalling. 

“I’ve suspected for a long while, but, I guess, Lil’s message really drove it home.” 

“I’ve always wanted to be one. A dad. To you and Lil.”

“You are. Thanks.”

“You don’t have...I expected you to be resentful of me. For being, well - damn, this is hard. Dishonorable towards Caelax.” 

“He’s alright, but it wasn’t him that missed a promotion because I came down with the influenza, or waited forty-five minutes in front of a screen to hear me blab about proto-turensi painters, you know?” 

Parth hesitated. 

“I don’t know what you, or mom, or Lil are mixed up in, but please don’t do something stupid.” 

“I wish it weren’t too late for that.” 

“We have a lot of catching up to do, patri. I can call you patri, right?” 

“You’d make me very happy, but only between us, alright? But first thing’s first, we have to solve the matter at hand.”

As the car finished its descent, Arvin gently moved his feet sideways, connecting them one at a time with the ground. Palaven’s soil gave way to him, crunching beneath his heavy boots. Irradiated for so long, it had cracked and crusted over into solid geometrical patterns that barely took note of the creatures treading on it. This year’s flash floods had been plentiful and Nelina had ordered the familiars to encourage the seedlings. They sprouted wildly, covering path and porch alike, turning the garden into a riot of sunset colors and dizzying fragrances. 

Hardly had his feet touched the wooden deck when a familiar came running from the house, bearing a datapad for him. Parth tried to intercept the woman and tell her that they will take it inside, but Arvin waved his concern away and opened the message. Parth understood. He threw the keys towards his father and saw him off. 

Arvin tried vainly to chase away the feeling that it was the first and last time he would see his son.


	15. Keys and codes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard's fate is decided. Arvin runs afoul of Facinus.

Nelina sat opposite the Primarch’s councilors, with an empty seat next to her pointedly reserved for him. Davos had not yet deigned to make an appearance and the councilors wasted no breath in making him feel unwelcome. 

“Turian honor means nothing these days if we allow a traitor and a fat bird in the Council.” Vizz’nek said in lieu of greeting, to the mumbled assent of the others. 

“Distinguished pels, we are here at the pleasure of the Primarch. I would hate for him to witness division within the ranks in the face of an intragalactic threat.” Nelina quipped, staring down Vizz’nek until his mandibles almost retreated into his mouth cavity. “Investigator Eritrus, be welcome, please have a seat. We have much to discuss.” 

“Yes, though little and less of it is pleasant. I feel compelled to apologize about the media circus, Investigator. You should be heralded as a hero, not as a traitor.” 

There he was, proud and defiant, spine ramrod straight in the honorary chair. Chief Hawk Vakarian, the progressist, the moderate, the absolute bane of his existence and the reason, retroactively, why his daughter was now solar dust. Teeth gnashing rage surged through him, igniting a spark of biotic activity that he barely suppressed when Nelina nudged him under the table. The other councillors he could brush off as dilettante feathered birds with no real power, but Vakarian was a symbol of the old world, aristocratic and autocratic concurrently. 

Arvin simulated politeness.

“Your appreciation means much to me, Chief Hawk Vakarian, though I accept the judgement and intervention of my peers. No honorary deed must be done in a dishonorable manner.” he lilted his words, suffusing warmth and admiration he did not feel in them. He vividly saw himself vaulting over the table and re-breaking every bone and stitch in his body to sink his talons in Vakarian’s unplated neck flesh.

Vakarian appeared mollified by the appreciation, though no one knew what exactly went on inside the taciturn turian’s head. The other councillors sneered and turned towards their circle, lamenting the waste of time this meeting was. 

Arvin studied the room, more to distract himself, intent on the power lines evidenced by the seating arrangement. It was not much to look at, the ECC room: rigid turian furniture, a couple of art installations done in cubic, traditional fashion, and a long table that could easily accommodate thirty people and seemed oversized for the twelve turians in the room. The only sign of personal touch was in the incandescent light bulbs that suffused the room in gold light akin to the sun filtering in. Somewhere, hidden in the panneling on the walls, sentry bots protected the Primarch and his councilors from all bodily harm. Arvin had already detected at least six motion sensors and three hidden cameras that captured every angle. No doubt there would be microphones to back them up with audio feed. 

Nobody bothered to speak to him after a few minutes had passed. His presence was so incongruous that he did not blame the etiquette-conscious politicians for it. It was unheard of to have a C-sec Investigator sit in witness on the ECC, let alone have him participate as an active member. Turians did their very best to make Citadel Security seem like an independent force, only tangentially made up of mostly turian members. 

When the door opened to admit the Primarch, it was like an usher signalled a change of scene. The councillors rapidly adopted a subservient manner, ceasing their tapping, grating and movement and filing neatly towards their chairs. Nelina’s face turned into a perfect mask of politeness, burying all traces of personality. Strangely, Vakarian did not undergo a transformation, either because his rigid frame didn’t allow it, or he was not capable of dissimulation. 

“I hereby open the Extraordinary Closed Council number one thousand, eight hundred and seventy six, on the date of 35th of Qvintilius 2157. The scribe will note that the subject of the day is File number 345 prime submitted to Turian Intragalactic Affairs on 5 of Cvartus 2157 by Liluva Varihierax, Garrus Vakarian and Bellator Silva, C-sec members of various ranks on Ostia. The file is archived as Top Secret as per the Intragalactic information and data protection laws giving each intragalactic governing body total secrecy over own governmental issues. The interior council has reached its decision via internal debates. The exterior council has reached its decision via cvorum. We refer to Chapter V, Title II, article 3, paragraph b of the Interior Council transcripts and its corresponding annexes.” 

The scribe, an androginous looking female, made only a few strokes on the datapad during this entire mind-numbing introduction. Despite the formality, this was an intimate meeting that far superseded the authority of all other turian committees and councils. 

“Now that we have that under way, let’s speak. The scribe will ensure all wording and transcripts are on par with official records.”

“Primarch Davos, there is no easy way of saying this and it rankles, but we must get rid of the prisoner.” Sores, the yellow-belly coward, spoke up first. “As quickly and as quietly as possible.” 

“Yes, if it is not disposed of, we could be facing immense penalties in the triumvirate, and in our economic space.” another, whom Arvin did not know, sang the same tune, followed by nodding and more assent from the councilors. 

“You’d kill an innocent just to save your hides? That is beyond cowardly.” Vakarian interrupted their gaggle, digging his talons into the table and then splaying them flat. 

“It is hardly an innocent, now, Chief Hawk. Its ship fired on turian fighters and it’s a soldier.” 

“You mean she, esteemed councillor.” Nelina moved in, cutting off two councilors who tried interrupting her. “I agree with Pel Vakarian, we can not murder a prisoner of war without at least an intervention. To do so would be unturian.” 

“Blood of the few for the good of the many.” the Primarch sighed, glancing at each of the attendants in turn. They continued squabbling, fewer and fewer councillors oscillating between murdering the prisoner and indecision. Davos showed all the hallmarks of a trapped animal. Very like him to let his underlings run amok and undermine his authority.

“Primarch Davos, if I may.” 

The room fell quiet when Arvin opened up, as if the chair had suddenly spoken. Even Nelina seemed surprised, despite herself. Everything was going well so far. 

“Speak freely, Investigator.” Davos gestured towards him and nodded. He seemed much more inclined to consider Eritrus’ tactic now that the whole turian council verged on the brink of war. To be known as the Primarch that broke the thousand year peace would not be something he wanted on his history slate. 

“I am humbled by the honor. The councillors are right, the prisoner is dangerous.” he relished the shockwave as it spread out. “But the Chief Hawk and Chief Legal Advisor are also right. We have a responsibility to society. We can’t afford to think in monochrome. I propose we take our volus friend’s advice, and move the prisoner somewhere out of Turian space.” 

“That is preposterous, Investigator!” 

“Councilor, abstain. I’ve given the Investigator free speech.” the Primarch reprimanded, much to the astonishment of the councillors.

“Thank you, Primarch. There are a few Terminus scientific facilities run by some of the more respected scientists alive that would be more than happy to receive such a gift. I have some experience with this. In particular, the Corporalis Intraspecies Psychiatry Institution on the asteroid XV Micenae are uniquely qualified to deal with any post-traumatic stress disorder she has incurred as a result of first contact with an alien species. They specialise in peaceful re-socialization of soldiers, especially those with similar situations. Most of their patients are people from extremely provincial planets who cracked under the pressure of intergalactic travel. They also have incredible security, so no word of her existence would pass outside our space. On the other hand, the Citadel authorities could be persuaded to look the other way if we report an artifact that came out of the space probe gone awry on Ostia. Perhaps a broken Prothean disk?” 

“That’s assuming the Empire actually hid Prothean technology, Investigator. That would betray Citadel regs and orders, and I’m sure you did not mean to say the Hierarchy willfully ignored them.”

“I merely mentioned the first thing that came to mind, Chief Legal Advisor. I’m sure something else, something more fitting, can be arranged.” 

“And how would we transport this prisoner to a backwater science facility in a podunk asteroid?” Nelina prodded, intent on playing her role to the fullest.

“C-sec works closely with these facilities, to track illegal drugs and Terminus merc activity, so I am familiar with some of the staff at CIPI Micenae. Doctor Kirrai would be more than happy to help, considering we’ve helped the institution in the past by directing individuals their way for therapy and study. If we want all traces of the soldier gone, I’m sure we can arrange that in due time, with some fortuitous transfers and no harm to her person. My suggestion is not as a C-sec officer, but as a concerned Turian citizen, of course. None of this should be traced back to the Hierarchy or C-sec.”

“It beggars belief that you would risk career and life on this out of the goodness of your heart, Investigator.” Vizz’nek spat, throwing his datapad on the table. 

“You are right, of course, councillor. In exchange, I want my name cleared of the biotic accusation and the probable lifelong sentence of forced labor camps.” 

“You ask only the suns and moons in the dark, Pel.” another councillor sneered, jangling her decorative bracelets to emphasize her point. 

“Enough!” the Primarch knocked on the table, bringing the audience back to civilised debate by force. “I had been hoping to avoid war altogether, but it seems inevitable now. I will allow the Investigator to deal with this, in exchange for his life and position in the Turian hierarchy. Chief Hawk Vakarian, arrange for covert military escort. Chief Legal Advisor Varihierax, your duty is to fix the financial side of this. Make sure nothing is traceable back to the Empire. If we have to go through volus hoops, so be it. Investigator, you will work with tela Varihierax and pel Vakarian to ensure your contacts are up to the task. I want utmost secrecy on this - if feather or breath of this ends up to the public, we all face the execution squad.” 

Obtaining a pardon was supposed to feel better. Somehow, it left Arvin completely blank. The others began filtering out in order of their importance as soon as the Primarch ended the session. Had he really been looking forward to death this time around? He gathered his things hastily and followed Nelina and Vakarian as they withdrew to discuss logistics. 

The next days were spent in feverish preparations, stacks of secret documents and covert approvals. As much as he was capable of espionage, this was Nelina’s world, through and through. She guided him as one would a child and reinforced the cracks. When his wounds would not let him work, she helped him prop a chaise longue in the guest living room in such a way that the nanobots would not be hindered in their reconstruction. 

At the height of their operation, he became disoriented and sluggish from the meds, each fever augmented by heart wrenching visions of Lil begging to see her patri. He saw her in the grips of convulsions, poison spreading through her delicate limbs and nestling in her heart, slowing it down, until clots formed and she would finally be free of misery. The worst came when he found himself in Lil’s body, his own mother washing the body and preparing it for cremation. 

Nelina was much stronger than him. Each day that passed with her daughter still in a C-sec frigomorgue on the Citadel saw her wake up at dawn, tirelessly go through dozens of reports, preparations, logistic data and contacts, coordinating a veritable army of specialists with barely a flinch. At night, she’d cry in her own office, shielded by the soundproof walls. They did not have much time for intimacy.

Sometimes, her staff took over his correspondence as she stood by his side. No one raised a browplate about that, either, not when Caelax visited him just as often, if not more. Parth had moved his tools next to the window and kept him company. They didn’t have to speak too much, Arvin was just content to see him painting.

Mercifully, he did not have to see Vakarian too often. Each day he woke up stronger than the last, so much so that he had to stop the treatment halfway through, in fear that it would enhance his abilities beyond Council allowance. By the end of the week, the necessary preparations were in place to move the prisoner in utmost secrecy and Arvin felt younger by a decade. He had orchestrated Shepard’s escape with the Hierarchy’s approval. He had never dreamed of using his Facinus connections in the service of the turian empire, but such was Nelina’s brilliance. She could make a turian unplate himself for his own good in the middle of a radiation storm and have him thank her afterwards. 

Arvin had even managed to get the Executor to polish dust when the commendation from the Primarch hit his desk. The slimy, subservient cloaca sent Arvin a high priority message through C-sec channels “congratulating him on acting as a beacon of C-sec, spreading its fame throughout Council space” and recommending that he take a couple of weeks off for proper regeneration. It probably cost Durant half of his liver to have his holosec send that out.

It was a beautiful day in Cipritine, too, one of the rare overcast days that brought the radiation down to tolerable levels for most species. He’d woken up with the sun and marked the first day he’d been able to go through his usual morning phys routine without stopping for breath. Somewhere between the last sets, he’d decided to take advantage of the day and eat out. It would give him just enough time until he met Nelina and Vakarian to be debriefed on the final details of the transfer. If his calculations were correct, it would go down tonight, and on Vakarian’s signature, too. 

The shaded dual chirality restaurant was overrun by mixed families, most of them asari, with one batarian exception. There was even a turian-quarian couple that were enthralled in a conversation with their two volus friends. Arvin suddenly realised that he had chosen a multicultural restaurant on purpose, as if he wanted to be in the presence of other species. He remembered Janora’s words about his disdain for other species and it suddenly irked him. 

He’d never hated other species, truthfully, he’d just been wholly indifferent to their existence as long as they didn’t serve his goals. It was their institutions that he despised, the myriad ways in which the asari and salarians undermined turian military supremacy and independence. They not only supported the Primacy and the Empire, but they defanged each and every Primarch who became holden to the Council’s beck and call. A couple of the other Facinus chapters thought that the Council could be a good ally if made to see how tyrannical the Empire is, but then again, some of them thought bringing an asteroid down over Cipritine was also a good idea. The Barefaced believed in encouraging their tribesmen to taste different ideas and make them unpredictable when they strike. 

He tapped on the table, forcing the thoughts back through the dark corridors they came from. Arvin focused on the kava before him, steaming hot, rich and muddy. He’d missed the taste. Not even FTL could ensure that it arrived fresh on the Citadel. The waitress behaved as if he were royalty, appearing out of nowhere if he so much as sighed. 

Arvin tuned in to the vidnews on his omni, switching between the nearby planets, general turian and intragalactic sections. The last article on him appeared almost a week ago. It was a poorly written opinion piece arguing for stricter turian biotic detection programs, “to identify the intangibles and better use their talents for the benefit of all society”. He was tempted to leave a comment on the article when his omni flashed an incoming message notification from an unknown sender. 

 

Good morning Investigator,

Hopefully you are enjoying your kava. Attached, for your consideration, is a valuable snippet of data regarding the latest ECC meeting. We recommend that you peruse it in privacy. 

With care,   
The insignificant

He knew better than to look around. Cursing under his breath, he dropped a credit chit down and ran back to his apartment. The message was so heavily encrypted that the turian intelligence military department would have an orgasm just looking at half of the layers there. He did a thorough scan of his apartment and, when it came out clean, sat on the edge of the bed and opened the file. 

To his horror, he heard himself speak at the ECC discussion, remixed over a popular asari pop song. Most of the councilors’ and even Nelina’s voice were muffled, but his was crystal clear. He took his omnitool and flung it to the farthest reaches of his apartment, denting the panelling on the wall. It fell without a noise on top of his civilian clothes.

“That conniving, barefaced, blue bitch!” 

Like oil boiling the flesh away and raging radiation hurricanes, he bricked his personal omnitool, destroying everything on it. He felt tempted to demolish his entire apartment, but the damage had already been done. He needed to stop it from spreading. 

Arvin left the apartment without his omni and, for the first time in a long while, without his visor. He felt naked without the touch of technology. He had to reach the safehouse and alert Nelina. Somehow, she had to be saved from this. 

He didn’t remember the road to the safehouse, it was littered with too many people and too many consequences. All he could recall were the frantic looks he cast about as he parked and walked through a labyrinth of paths meant to throw any pursuer off his kilter. He’d already used a public terminal and sent a red code to the hideout. If the people on duty had any salt in their steel, they would know to alert Nelina immediately. Arvin stopped three streets before the safe house, wishing he could slap himself over the face. He recalibrated his trajectory and took a seat at an isolated table in the Javelin. It was a clean, wholesome and well lit bar, with business people and families chirping away and enjoying the beautiful day. 

Nonetheless, he caught a couple of looks for his odd Citadel garb. It was not everyday that an off-duty C-sec officer walked into the prime Facinus bar on Cipritine. The waiter approached him, a funny looking middle aged turian, smiling from one ear to the other quite literally. 

“You’re done and fucked now. What’d you do?” 

“Myrrh, did you get my message?” 

“So did about 30 bounty hunters. You’re a wanted turian now, y’catch? They wanna play some clawball, ‘bout 10000 credits worth on your bony ass.”

“What are you talking about? Have you warned everyone?” 

“Sorry Arvin, your gizzard is next on the menu. Orders from high up.”

“Wait, I’m...my account is terminated?”

“‘Fraid so.” 

“Shit, I really liked your kava. Thanks for the tip. No idea who did it?”

“You have 30 standard minutes before they wise up. I’d get to safety.” 

“Not telling, I get it. See you later, then.” he dropped a credit chit on the table and stood up. Myrrh leaned in to take the chit.

“Sora did it. I don’t know what you screwed up, but she’s sent the best after you. Spirits be with you.” the middle aged turian whispered and turned to another table without glancing back.

He was numb. The enormity of it simply hadn’t registered correctly. Arvin went to the bathroom and shoved his biotic amp in its slot, wincing as the little used neural connections sparked to life, electrifying his every nerve. As he left, he saw about four people getting up to pay their bills, a good sign. At least they would be competing against eachother for a short while. He had about 25 more minutes to get to safety, a full barrier and unlimited ammo in his concealed pistol. Things could have been significantly worse the day bounty hunters were sent after him. Arvin chuckled, aware of the absurdity of the situation. 

He exited the district through the sewers, taking care to muffle his sounds and cover his footsteps. He encountered the occasional homeless turian or junkie, but they were too strung out to pay him much mind. Arvin exited in the middle of the party district, dusting off his jacket and picking imaginary slime off. 

He picked the first club to his left and sauntered over to the bar, putting on a convincing show of drunkenness.

“Vei, tela, c’mere.” he sputtered and tried to jump on a barstool, failing miserably and draping himself half over the chair. 

“Itaa, pel, what’s gotten into you?” the wrinkled bartender held out a hand to steady him, but missed by an inch. Her manicured talons grasped the air before reaching out to his jacket for better purchase. Underneath her full ceremonial cloak she wore nothing more than a few strategically placed wisps of sparkly nanomaterial.

“Tela, ‘tis my friend. Bastard left me with a huge debt at the Augustus casino and bolted for Omega. I need to call ‘im, but I ain’t got enough extranet bandwidth to get to‘im.”

“The hell ya want me to do? You either want another drink, or need to get lost!” she spat, turning to cleaning the dirty glasses with an even filthier washcloth.

“Lissn, I gots the credits - here, run this credit chit, I just need some bandwidth.” he sputtered, belching and burping for added effect.

“Ya do now? Gimme that chit.” she snatched it from his hand, greedily inspecting it for value. “That’ll buy you about 5 minutes of bandwidth, no questions asked. But I better not hear it’s anything illegal, or I’m handing your bony ass to CipSec” 

“Gotcha, tela, promise no legal stuff, I mean illegal.” he hiccuped and followed her outstretched finger to where the private extranet terminals were. 

Arvin wobbled to one of them, and pretended to have some problems dialling before he got the combination right. His hands were shaking. He had to be careful to keep his biotics in check.

“Drala’fa, I have one standard minute before termination. No chit-chat. Pick up the pyjak now, at all cost. The varren are chasing its tail.” 

“Mother of Arashu, agent Hawk, this is an unsecured line! Are you trying to kill us all?” a drell’s smooth voice pierced through the distance, sufficiently modified to avoid identification. Arvin was the only member of his chapter to know the drell’s identity.

Two turians entered the club and leisurely walked towards the bar, engaging the bartender in what appeared to be amicable conversation. They were armed to the teeth, all concealed, except for the invariable modification in gait that packing such heat brought with it. Arvin felt dizzy with nausea.

“I’m out of the project. Sora is compromised as well. No time for more details. I’ve sent you the project clearance code. Make sure the pyjak is safe before any other movement. It’s the key to our entire efforts. Do not listen to other orders unless they come from the Barefaced themselves. Spirits be with you. Goodbye.” 

“Acknowledged. Good luck, agent Hawk. May we meet on the other side of the ocean in peace.” 

The call disconnected and Arvin took steady steps towards the bathroom, through the staff entrances and right out the back door. A turian and a krogan awaited him in the shade with unholstered assault rifles pointed right to his foreplate. 

“Gorky, this the one?”

“Can’t you spirits-blasted tell? He fits the description perfectly.” 

“You gizzard-polishers all look the same to me.” the hulking beast retorted with a smile. He sounded ancient. As ancient and unhappy as all krogans. His red armor had enough dents and haphazardly patched holes to last Arvin through three lifetimes. He didn’t wear any radiation protection, as was customary for krogans visiting Palaven. Why need radiation protection when your home planet is an irradiated wasteland? 

“Hello, pel and...mister krogan. Were you looking for me?” Arvin swallowed hard, his eyes darting back and forth between his captors. He could hear the other two following behind, the sound of indignant staff screaming and glassware smashing accompanying them. 

“Well, what are you waiting for, Gorky? Cuff him.” 

Arvin took the risk of activating the muscle memory for a biotic throw, despite having his hands almost flush against his body. 

“They didn’t say anything about wanting him alive, you lumbering beast. I say…”

The door opening propelled Arvin over the Gorky fellow, both of them tumbling to the ground. Gorky’s assault rifle flew from his grasp, rattling on the paveway meters away.

“Shoot them both! That’s our bounty there” a female’s voice screamed, only to be choked back as she was engulfed in biotics and thrown back through the corridor. The krogan glowed a fierce blue and assumed a menacing stance, preparing to charge. 

“Touch my hunt and I’ll make polite inquiries about the price on your heads, too.” 

Arvin heard the fight between the other bounty hunters as disjointed fragments. Gorky was putting up a fight of his own, reaching for his pistol with each tumble. A flurry of spurs, elbows, punches and kicks landed on Arvin. With the strength of a trapped nathak, he fought back, biting and scratching until they rolled, by chance, against trash containers. Gorky scrambled up, leaning on the wall and tripped Arvin, who grabbed onto the merc’s ankle. He fell back down on top of Arvin and pushed Arvin’s dominant hand away right before he could finish his mnemonic. With his other hand, Gorky unholstered his pistol. Arvin’s barrier whined and fizzled, the interference from Gorky’s shield disrupting its integrity. At point-blank range, it would only serve to make his death more agonizing as the bullet could not penetrate deep enough. He prayed they were not shredder rounds. 

The krogan was getting the upper hand on the other two turians. One of them lay with a bullet hole between his eyes, while the female was attempting to corner the krogan and prevail on him through agility. Such a stupid strategy. Krogan were experts at close range, their fierceness complimented by their sheer bulk. 

He decided to do something wholly undignified and, with his last strength, propelled himself forward and sunk his teeth in the merc’s unplated and unguarded neck. Bewildered, Gorky dropped the pistol as his arms reached for the wound in a feeble attempt to stem the bloodflow. 

“You krogan-fucking piece of trash.” he yelled and recoiled away from Arvin and towards the pistol. Without thinking, Arvin unclipped his own pistol and discharged round upon round into Gorky’s back, until his whole armor was nothing more than bloodied shrapnel. The gun burned his gloves as it overheated, the smell of burnt textile and flesh barely registering. He gasped for air as the merc twitched for the last time.

Arvin steadied himself with one hand against the crates and assessed the situation. Three mercs down, the krogan nowhere to be seen. Where could a one ton beast disappear in this cramped alleyway? It made no sense. He swerved his head wildly to all sides, looking for any sign of orange blood. His earpiece emitted a sharp whine, followed by a voice. 

“Don’t move unless you want to see what an antimatteriel sniper rifle can do.” 

“I won’t.” Arvin threw his pistol to the ground, as if anticipating the next order.

“The hell are you doing, bird-face? Did I tell you to throw your weapon away?” the krogan had a deep, commanding voice to match his hideously scarred face.

“You have me at a disadvantage, here. Do we know eachother?” 

“No. But I’m not here to kill you. I have bigger varren to roast.” 

“Ah, see, it’s hard to believe that with a shining red dot on my forehead.” 

“Humor in a turian? Inconceivable. You have twenty seconds to drop to the sewers and scramble.”

“What’s your mission? Perhaps we could help eachother?” Arvin tested the waters, his intuition scoping out all possible scenarios where a krogan could be involved in all this. 

“You figure in it, alive, and that’s all you need to know. Ten seconds.” 

Arvin decided to stop pushing his luck and listen to the krogan. Even if he was just waiting to shoot him the second his back turned, he had no alternative. Slowly, predictably, he picked up his gun and made for the manhole. He heard no shots as he closed the hatch behind him. Once inside the damp darkness, the sound of his breath escaping startled him. It bounced off the wall and resonated like a thousand pursuers sniffing after him. 

He hid in a maintenance corridor and slumped against the wall, ignoring the foul smell. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved Gorky’s omnitool and began the short work of hacking it. It was a standard-issue tool, un-attuned to its owner’s biometrics. He flipped through all of its functions and realized it was useless to him. He had no idea how to program the drone or divert energy to incinerate. He decided to keep it, if only for the overload, but perhaps with a bit of tweaking to make it more efficient and less battery-depleting. 

The last message the merc received was a heavily encrypted order for Arvin’s assassination, with an ID he had seen numerous times before. Even without the message, it was a bitter pill to swallow. He tried justifying her choice, now that he was a liability, but found himself angry regardless. 

“I don’t have time for this. I can mourn when I’m done.” 

He had to correct the course of things before news of this broke out across Citadel space. There might still be a chance to save face if he could hurry the prisoner’s transfer. Arvin did a quick check of his clearance codes and mapped out the distance to Boreal Safehouse. He had enough time to figure out transportation off Palaven on the way there. 

Arvin felt a new understanding of salarians and their impatience with other species. Regardless of how much he ran or how fast he walked, the distance to the safehouse simply wouldn’t close. Each new sewer corridor, each new stinking pit disheartened him, while each sound frightened and frayed his nerves. He had no recourse but to admit it, he was scared and facing a horde of assassins that could be hiding at each intersection. 

He turned the latch to a door indicated in his nav soft and exited half a kilometer from the safehouse, right on the southern outskirts of Cipritine. The open space, bereft of tall buildings or hiding places, raised his anxiety to the point that he had to stop and vomit in an outcrop. When the retching and heaving subsided, he sprayed a fine decontamination mist on his whole body to get rid of the smell of garbage and vomit stains. Save for the lights from the safehouse tents and observation towers, it was pitch black. Cipritine was not called “the sunset capital” for nothing: you could start on one end at the crack of dawn, but there was virtually no chance to arrive at the other end of the city before nightfall. 

Arvin straightened out and headed for the visitation door, where a polite virtual receptionist checked his clearance and declared that he may proceed. This late at night, the visitors wing had no physical security, just mechs patrolling in predictable patterns. The soothing blue light that covered the stark hallways, with their red leather couches pushed against the walls and their harmless plants made Arvin twitch. He made a beeline towards the prisoner holding wing, anticipating the grilling he’d get from the doubtless bored guards. 

Much to his surprise, they let him go through with little ceremony, the female guardian waving him away with something akin to cheer. The younger guard, a fledgling barely mustering out, was eager to fleece Arvin of more details, but the old hag hushed him up with the speed of light. 

“Look, kid, you want to know or you want to stay alive?” 

“Tela...”

“Lex” 

“Tela Lex is right, kid. Empire secrets are renowned for bringing about sudden bad health, take it from me.” 

The young officer bristled at their patronizing tone and turned his back to them, pretending to be busy with paperwork. He didn’t have to pretend too hard, judging by the information overflow on his private terminal. Sometimes, Arvin thought that the only reason turians evolved beyond being predators was because they kept arguing about how to properly file documentation regarding their prey yield to the tribe. 

Arvin saluted the both of them and left with his visitor bracelet, which he immediately hacked to hide any trace of his ever having been in the safehouse. Once he’d return it, it would infiltrate in the servers and change the visitor entry, deleting all evidence of his visit. There was no real reason for such caution, but he had professional pride.

He passed numerous houses with their lights off, using the bracelet’s gps indicator to get to the human’s building. He didn’t need it much, he’d grown up in safehouses such as these from the moment he’d been an orphan. They were all built to a standard so exacting that it made navigating them as predictable as brushing his incisors after every meal. He hated to admit it, but it almost felt like home. 

The building his navpoint indicated was a traditional turian burrow, one story on the exterior and at least three or four buried underground, away from radiation and dust storms. Conveniently, burrows made for great prisons - where better to hide a secret this big, if not underground? There was no resistance as he presented his auth signature, the guards stepping aside and indicating which cell held the prisoner in a curt, but deferential manner. 

His eyes glimmered with incipient madness as he descended the last flight of stairs and entered the secluded holding wing. Arvin’s boots clicked rhythmically across the metal stairs, each step reverberating in the hollow staircase. Behind him, the sound bounced back and echoed his footfall, making it seem that he had a small army of turians behind him. Perhaps he did, but he did not want to admit it just yet. Throughout the room, everything was ghostly white and sparkling steel, from the sheets to the curtains whose windows led to more underground tunnels. A few emergency lights had been left on, although the human’s windows had been screened from it. To look your own reflection in the eyes for days…

“Spirits, she must be stark mad by now!” he found himself muttering. He was startled by the sound of his own voice, his hand springing for his mouth and then back to rest on the haptical interface of a cold console. He pulled up the screen with deft movements. 

The projections on life support were so frail, so easily disrupted. He could just turn the knob on the oxygen tank and it would desaturate the room in a matter of minutes. His finger hovered over the controls, his teeth on edge as he heard another set of steps. He released the latch on the privacy screen and gasped as it opened up to a an empty room.


	16. Defensive manoeuvres

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard and Eritrus meet again and say their farewells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! Trigger warnings !!! Character death and violence, please be aware. It is not gruesome or overly drawn out, but no death is ever pretty.
> 
> **Dictionary and worlbuilding references**
> 
> _hrotiva_ = primitive

The sound of the second guard falling against the door awoke her. Someone tried the door access code two times, each one wrong. She sprang from the bed and looked around for a weapon, taking cautious steps away from any door or window. Whoever it is, they’re definitely not paying a social call. For a second, she was hopeful, but it couldn’t have been an Alliance rescue team, they had no way of knowing where she was. There was now a scuffle outside, with at least two others joining the fray. She heard somebody tumbling on the deck and scampering to cover. 

“Gunshots...they’re firing outside!” she inhaled sharply, aware that she’d spoken out loud. She unhooked the steel rod hanger from the bedroom clothes locker and squeezed it in her hands until her nails dug into her palm. They’d grown to a length she was not accustomed to. Shepard approached the anteroom window with measured steps, pinching the blinds. The sudden light shaft stung her eyes and for a moment she was blind. Quickly the spell passed and she could distinguish shapes in the darkness outside, all of them turian. There were four of them now, judging by the light their weapons flashed when fired. It was too dark to make out their faces, except for one. 

“Arvin Eritrus!” she growled and clutched the steel rod even tighter, squeezing out the blood from her knuckles. He was trapped, bullied in by two turians in mismatched, tarnished armours into the flimsy cover of the house controller’s exterior cooling unit. The third turian was jumping from cover to cover, maneuvering to flank him, taking advantage of the trees on the other side of the street. “Oh, no, boys, this one is mine.” she smiled and ran to the kitchen, vaulting over the windowsill and landing softly on the blue grass. 

The third turian was almost upon Eritrus and he hadn’t noticed. She could see the soldier take aim, positioning his rifle in the crook of his shoulder, the supporting elbow resting on his out-thrust hip. His aim seemed right on the money. The soles of her naked feet hurt from pounding them onto the concrete. She was gaining on him, running as fast as she could, keeping as close to cover as she could. Shepard stopped suddenly at the entrance of the alleyway, skidding on the soles of her feet. She creeped behind him, inching closer, almost close enough to touch him. The steel rod felt heavy in her hands and she could barely steady her breath. 

Steady, steady, steady. Kill the bastard that’s trying to kill the bastard I want to kill. 

She raised the rod above her head, feeling its weight, steadying her hands and swinging it down with all her strength the second before the other turian could pull the trigger. He crumpled up with the sound of sheets of reinforced ceramic plating scraping against itself and gnashing itself on the street’s potholes. 

“Here, take this.” she heard a familiar voice behind her and swerved just in time to catch a small cylindrical object that caught the glint of the streetlight above. 

“What is this?” she yelled back “And what the hell are you doing here?” 

“Questions if we survive.” Arvin shot back, returning fire as best he could from a crouch. He was practically glued to the side of the building, counting down time between reloads when he could fire. He was not making any progress. 

“What you have there is an omnitool, which is similar to the primitive device you used, but much more powerful. Its previous owner won’t need it. You have all of the languages translated there, plus some other things. You’ll figure it out. I’ve forged the doctor’s notes to say that you’re allowed one. Spirits blast this!” he spat a string of untranslatable slurs. The translating apps were so good, that she hadn’t heard their actual voices in weeks. She shook her head and refocused on the essentials. 

“Why would you give it to me?” 

“[untranslatable string, please stand by for vocabulary recognition].”

“What did you say?” 

“I said some choice things about their clan and family. Short of it, I’m sorry for what I did, not sorry for why I did it. There’s at least two factions that want humans as a subjugated species and they want to use you to get that.” 

“And which side are you on?” 

“My own.” he seized the moment when one of the fighters made a mistake. As he was reloading, he didn’t crouch low enough behind the shot-up car. Arvin seized the pistol with both hands and aimed straight for the head. The soldier fell on his back, half of his head gone. 

“Who are they? What is all of this?” 

“Slow down, the translator is picking up noise in…” his voice was cut off as a flurry of blue sparks surrounded him. His free hand moved to his waist. 

“Jesus! Are you ok?” she ran to him, forsaking her cover on the other building corner. 

“Potshot, that labisian was lucky it ricocheted on the building’s side.” shock rippled through his reptilian stare and his pupils dilated, engulfing his whole eyesocket. Shepard brought her hand up to support his back, while the other was searching for the wound. The feeling of his velvet tunic made her realise how vulnerable they both were. She was dressed in a tight fitting tunic and pants herself, far away from the comfort of a hardsuit in a battle. The inspector did not shy away from her touch, wincing in pain.

“I’ll be fine, the stims are working.” 

Shepard brought the bloodied hand closer to her face, examining it. The blue liquid felt surreal and she did not immediately register it as blood, save for its metallic smell. 

“Are they here for me?”

“No, they’re here for me. The Primarch decided that you’re going to be transported to the edge of Citadel space, to cover their tracks. They’ll come for you tomorrow, dress you up and ship you off to a research centre. I can’t guarantee what’ll happen there. But I can give you a chance to escape that. On that omni, you have a contact, Poros Temkor. When you’re alone, and I mean so alone you can hear the breeze of a single leaf seesawing to the ground, call it and he will know what to do. I don’t know if you’ll be murdered at that research centre, so you’ll have to do it quickly.” 

“Why should I trust you? You beat me to within an inch of my life, you reptilian creep!” 

Another bullet whizzed past their ears, bouncing off the mortar walls and smashing a window. Glass shards rained down on them. 

“I’ve done worse than that, I can assure you. Let’s put this on hold while I solve this issue.” he was panting, a wet mist flowing from his mouth with each exhalation in the frigid night air. He returned fire until one of his pistols almost glowed red. 

“Give me a gun, a weapon, anything!” she raised her voice, withdrawing her hand from his back. “I’m a soldier, I can use it.” 

“You can’t, they’re turian made. They have adaptations for three fingers that species with five can’t use. But I have a better idea. I don’t have enough strength in me for a biotic attack, but you...you could help me. Open that omni. Good, now navigate to the menu. See those hotkeys?” he stood up, pinning the soldier from advancing on them with three quick bursts of fire. “Good, see that little blue icon that looks like an electric explosion? Tap it. Ok, now aim it at that cloaca and squeeze your hand when you’re ready.”

She did as instructed and almost lost her balance when the powerful blue surge left her body through the omnitool, coiling itself like ball lightning and striking the turian soldier with an electric webbing the moment he stood up to shoot. He writhed and convulsed, his whole body jerking and twisting as if he were possessed. Eritrus hooted and turned to her. She grabbed her hand and rubbed it, the remnants of the attack still painful on her wrist. 

“Not bad for a beginner, not bad! Stay here.” he hollered, quickly holstered his pistols and dashed right at the attacker. Shepard was afraid that he’ll be engulfed in the violent storm, but it seemed to largely contain itself by the time the inspector had vaulted over the metal crate the other turian had used as cover. 

She looked in all directions, realising that, for the first time in weeks, she was truly alone. No guards, no both-way mirrors, no scientists poking and prodding her. Shepard got up, turned her back and began running in the opposite direction of the inspector. She had no sense of direction, no idea where she was going or which way was up, but she ran at full speed away from the madhouse behind her, her bare feet eating up the concrete, falling on pebbles, tripping, stumbling, getting up and running again. Run, run, run goddamn you useless legs. She’d lost some of her physical conditioning on the ship, then in captivity for so long, only eating the bare minimal amount to keep her alive. She was panting up a storm, swallowing air, wheezing, coughing, but never slowing her sprint. Shepard turned a corner, then another, then another, on an on, the squat buildings blending into eachother. She passed a plaza resplendent in lush greenery that blurred into a gray mist as she vaulted over shrubs and ornamental concrete pots, slipping on flowers fallen from trees and regaining her footing just as she was about to crash in a column supporting an arch. 

“Halt! Stop running or I’ll shoot!” she heard from one alley and froze at the sight of four turians dressed just like her guards. 

“Don’t shoot, you idiot, it’s the human! Wait, we won't harm you!” another shouted and they all started walking towards her. 

Shepard turned and ran the other way, sprinting towards the alley. She heard the other soldiers hot on her heels. She couldn’t outrun them, they were too fast and she was too tired. They’d spread out to cut her escape and already they were gaining on her. 

Think, think goddamn you. 

She turned a corner and took cover behind a heating unit. She could hear her pursuer’s footsteps pounding on the pavement, perilously close. She unclenched her fist and realised she was still holding the small cylindrical device Eritrus had given her. She booted the thing up and, to her surprise, it worked. Frantically, she retraced the exact steps Eritrus had told her to activate an overload, targeting the empty space in front of her. Shepard waited, illuminated in an orange glow.

The footsteps drew closer and sweat flowed on her brow, on her back and down the sides of her thighs, yet she shivered. She held on to the omnitool so tight that she was afraid she’d break it. The turian passed before her and she released the trigger, watching as he broke out into a seizure. Without thinking, she ran the opposite way, kicking up dust and fallen leaves. 

The omnitool pinged once more, the holoscreen projecting that weird alphabet in front of her. For all its alienness, she recognized it needed her to act. Shepard cursed and pressed the pulsating button, not breaking her stride. 

“Stop right where you are and turn to your left. If you continue, the guards will cut off your escape.” Eritrus’ voice came through weakly. His breathing was ragged. “You need to get back to me, otherwise they’ll label you an escape risk and double your guard detail.”

“But what about the other three guards?” she whispered into what she thought was the microphone. 

“No more time. I’ll navigate you away from them and back to the house. You will have to sing a song to them, we’ll figure something out. Turn right at the next intersection. Don’t run, turians can hear something running from clicks away. They won't expect you to walk” 

“Why should I trust you? You’ve given me no reasons.” 

“If you want to get killed, that’s on you, but I suspect you still have a reason to live, or you would have terminated yourself long ago.” he coughed “I won’t be long now, you need to weigh your options. I need to know I...that I’ve made amends for what I did.” 

“To me?”

“You’re somewhere on that list.” he paused for so long that she was afraid he’d died. “High up on that list, actually. I thought she was leading me down the right path. I was fine being a peon in her schemes, but not our children, never our children. I don’t know your kind and culture, I don’t know if you can understand.”

“Children...I can understand that.” 

“Come back, please. I...I don’t want to die alone.” 

Shepard brought her free hand to the nape of her neck and rubbed it. Even if she were to escape this compound, she had no idea what to do next, no weapons or armour or spaceship to escape off this planet. And what if she did find a spaceship, could she even pilot it with ten fingers? If she could, where would she go? On the other hand, she had Eritrus and she still remembered how well he’d served her the first time. 

_If it’s a trap, I’m screwed anyway._

She listened to his breaths becoming shallower and faster as fluid filled his lungs. They didn’t have enough time, certainly not enough for her to tiptoe around in this ghost town. She retraced her steps carefully, listening to him point out streets and getting closer to the navpoint he indicated. Whether she’d find him or the barrel of a gun when she got to that navpoint, she couldn’t know. 

“Take the second left and you’ll see me, I’m leaning on the cicamora tree...damn, the blue-green tree in the garden.” 

“Did you kill the last one?” 

“He served his purpose. I hope he went peacefully to the spirits, although I doubt it. I have to close this connection, it’s too hard to hold my arm up. Hurry.” he begged and discontinued the call, leaving Shepard alone. 

Dawn was almost breaking and the sight was unbelievably human. There was a moon hanging translucent against the canopy of stars and the sky started burning red as the sun pierced the veil of darkness. A moon just like her own. So this was how Garrus’ planet looked like, how its sky looked like. So very similar to her own. 

Shepard jumped over the small fence and ran to the cicamora tree, but she could not see Eritrus. Panicked, she scanned her surroundings, searching for a sign of him, anything. She circled the large tree and saw him slumped over, fallen on his side and barely breathing. His blue and white striped coat was dirty and torn, suffused in an almost indigo colour that expanded all over his chest. Shepard tried to rouse him, calling his name and gently nudging him. Finally, he opened his eyes and tried to focus on her, to no avail. Blue blood was trickling out of his mouth.

“Eritrus. We have to get you to a hospital.” 

“What for, Shepard? I did what I came here to do. If I make it out of this, it’s a death sentence waiting for me.” 

“I need to know what happened. Why did you do this, all of this. Tell me.” 

Shepard sat down next to him, kneeling so she could support his head on her thighs. He didn’t protest, or was maybe too weak to do so. 

“Do you truly want to be here, at my death-side?” he asked plaintively.

“What sort of question is that?” Shepard replied, exhausted and confused.

“It’s a very intimate thing, to be there when a turian dies. Private, familial. I didn’t think you’d return. I wouldn’t have.” 

She let the silence stretch over them for a little while and actually considered this. She couldn’t tell where the bullet had pierced, there was blood everywhere she looked.

“Yes.”

“Selfish to the very end I am.” he paused and blinked slowly. Shepard was afraid he would not open his eyes again, but then he started talking. “A new species in the galaxy...how can I even begin to explain? It's a rare thing these days. When your ships started activating mass relays, we thought it was a terrorist cell or some of the more unsavory parts of the galaxy coming out. It didn’t occur to us turians that you were a new species. For the past thousands of years the asari have been monitoring countless civilisations and contacting them when the time is right. They were never wrong so far, although there are quite a number of species that wanted nothing to do with the Citadel controlled space once they’d learned of it. I don’t blame them. And here you come unbidden, reaching out for first contact with impunity, fumbling in the dark with your primitive technology, unaware of the dangers and consequences of your actions. Spirits, your ships, I can't believe they're spaceworthy, they're so primitive. I’ve seen your escape pod, you have barely weeks of oxygen in your tanks.” 

“Compared to yours, yes.” she swallowed and looked up as blue started to seep into the crimson sky. The hue reminded her of Garrus’ markings. “We sent probes to some relays and when they returned, we sent manned ships. If they found a mass relay, as you call them - we call them conduits - they were to activate it and send a probe to see if it was safe.” 

“You’re just like children, aren’t you? Maybe the galaxy needs that. We’ve gotten so terribly old, Shepard, and stagnant in our ways. But please, let me finish. It was their job to monitor new species, our job to keep the galaxy safe. But turians are not so nuanced and slippery as the asari. With some notable exceptions, like me.” he smiled and opened his eyes. He seemed surprised to feel her hand on his shoulder, supporting him. “You’re so cold, are all humans that way? How do you keep warm? Oh, nevermind. Liluva Varihierax - my daughter - thought she could slough off the stigma of being a turian biotic and use you as a bargaining chip. The Primarch of Palaven saw your military nature and cowered at the thought that you could be a threat to turian supremacy. Lil’s mother and I...well, we wanted to recruit your species as soldiers in our own war of independence. You’ve learned enough about turians to know how our culture is, how much it depends on centralisation. Nelina wanted to bring humans on the side of the freedom fighters. There are many of us looking to unshackle the colonies from the tyranny of the central Primarchs, but none as strong as Facinus. I was supposed to play the part of a good Hierarchy soldier and, well...show you how the Empire can be. I’m sorry for that, I don’t know if you can forgive me for my part. 

“You blamed it on Garrus, he’s in a world of trouble now. You almost killed me. How can you justify that?” 

“A world of trouble, what an odd saying. It makes you feel like there’s no corner to hide yourself in. I can’t justify that, I won’t. I’ve done some terrible things that would make any person in the world recoil in horror. I thought I was doing it for a good cause. It turns out, I’ve been doing it for my own selfish reasons, my own thirst for vengeance. She sacrificed our life together, our child and finally, she was ready to sacrifice me. I have no doubt she will turn to my only living child next, and I have to stop her.”

“And how is this stopping her?” Shepard asked, lifting her hand from his shoulder and wiping the blood away on the grass. 

“You. You have to tell them. The guards, Vakarian’s father, anyone. Tell them to search my omnitool. The ensuing chaos will make your escape easier, they'll have a scandal on their hands. And if you still want to listen to my cause when you’re away, find Poros. He’s a good person, he’s helped us smuggle injured people and prisoners away from the Empire’s gallows. He can find a way to help you get back home, to Shanxi.” 

“Shanxi? What are you…?” Shepard left her question trailing along when she noticed he wasn’t breathing anymore. She gently lifted his head and got up to stretch. She wiped her face on her sleeve and noticed it came away wet. 

He looked...not at peace exactly, not in the way a human would look like in death. His eyes were open and unfocused. All the while, his plating was dulling by the minute. 

The Shanxi-Theta relay was the last conduit her ship had used, stopping at the military base planetside to refuel before leaping into the unknown. She, Jaroslav and Chandra were among the lucky ones that got a shore leave to enjoy some downtime, but she traded it with Moore and gave him a chance to eat synthetic beef and hook up with some hick colony girl. She spent that night huddled in her bunk, waiting for the vidscreen to turn on back home. It was the last call she made. Moore thanked her by sharing some of his chocolate and she replied by sending him to the Medbay to get checked out for colony fever. Now they were all dead, buried dust on some planet that she didn’t even know. 

The Shanxians opened the relay to turian space there only months prior, to send a probe. Shanxi, a small military colony. The turians had found it. She wondered what would happen now that they’d made first contact proper. 

Something akin to a riot-equipped truck was humming in the distance. Sirens had begun blaring a while back, which meant that the soldiers gave up and sounded the alarm. She surveyed the damage around her: two dead guards leaning on a broken door frame, three dead turians and Eritrus resting quietly in the turqoise shade of a cicamora tree. Shepard sat down, hid the omnitool in her back pocket, put her hand on Eritrus’ face and began sobbing. Her head fell on his chest and she wailed, feeling the metallic smell of blood seeping into her hair and smearing her face. 

When she felt a light tap on her shoulder, she looked around and saw that she was surrounded by turians in the same military garb as her guards. They were heavily armed and armored, devoid of identity behind their opaque helmet visors. 

“Shepard-miss, are you injured?” she heard an unfamiliar voice get closer to her as the unknown turian kneeled down and took her in his arms. 

She couldn’t speak. Claws were digging into her, grappling for purchase. The unknown guard took his helmet off and cradled her, saying nothing. Around her she heard the others yelling, barking orders and mobilizing to secure the perimeter. The word Facinus got thrown around, but it meant nothing to her. Nothing meant anything at all to her anymore. 

“Death.” she coughed and swallowed her tears. “That is all you bring. Death in your wake and murder on your hands. I hope you keep this galaxy and choke on it.” 

“Shepard miss, you are in shock.” the turian said and the familiarity of the voice shook her. 

At first it didn’t register clearly in her brain. Blue markings that started on each cheekbone, uniting in the middle with one more line on the nasal bridge. Two more geometrical patterns on each mandible, making the gray plating and his cobalt blue eyes shine. They were different eyes, calmer and colder somehow. But why should she assume that the Garrus she knew back on that planet would be the same that would greet her here? 

Someone began screaming viscerally and she heard it as if through a glass pane in the depths of a tunnel. It was a blood-curdling wail, reverberating on the walls and floating, carried by the wind. She was oddly soothed by the humanness of that voice, despite its shrill, ear-piercing tone. As two other guards rushed to their side and stopped with their rifles at ready, she realised it was her own voice which was rending the early morning quietness. They said something to Garrus and he backed away from her slowly.

“No, Garrus, don’t go, please don’t go.” she yelled and clung to him, her voice hoarse and raspy. He looked at her with pity.

“Shepard miss, do you fear me?”

The question penetrated through her shock and made her remember who she was. Where she was. Her whole body was seized by electricity and she got up, steadying herself on the tree to look Garrus in the eye. 

“No, not you.” 

“I’m not Garrus, he’s my son. If he has been dishonorable to you, I apologise and will make restitutions.”

“Garrus?” she croaked, her mouth dry and sticky.

“He’s my son.” he repeated again, slowly this time and looking her in the eyes. “My name is Heros Vakarian. An honor to meet you.” 

It was as if someone had kicked the ladder from under her before she was ready to tighten the noose. Her nails sunk deeper into the soft, yielding bark of the cicamora tree. The pain helped ground her, keep her mind together, in the present tense. She blinked to clear her eyes. Their plates were different, with Garrus’ being a lighter brown-gray, their stature was different, their presence as well. And the eyes. Yes, the eyes were a dead give-away. Heros had the more commanding presence, of a sort that elicits respect at first sight and a height that dwarfed her own. His eyes were colder, more shrewd and distant. There was no trace of the hotheaded, reckless turian she’d met weeks prior in those pools of ice. 

“Honor to meet me…” she whispered, her eyes focusing and unfocusing on Eritrus’ placid face. “Considering the circumstances, I should say the same. You’re Garrus’ father? But you look so...no, sir, your son has been anything but dishonorable to me. He saved me.”

“I’m relieved to hear that, miss. Are you injured? What happened here?” he moved his head from side to side in a despondent sweep.

“I’m bruised and tired, yet miraculously in one piece. That’s Arvin Eritrus lying there, the others I don’t know. They came in the dead of night, murdered my two guards and they would have murdered me too if Eritrus didn’t defend me.”

“What was Eritrus doing here?”

“I don’t know very well, he was too injured to say. He mentioned a conspiracy he had found, involving someone he knew by the name of Nelina. Said he had to save me. Did my translation come out alright?”

“Nelina Varihierax!” the not-Garrus exclaimed “Are you certain about this?”

“Yes, he said something about turian separatists and how he was afraid I would be murdered to frame the turian race.” she lied, fully aware of the outcome. It mattered less to her that the separatists would suffer than that she would get revenge on the puppet masters that had been pulling her strings. 

“How did you escape unharmed?” 

“He shielded me. I ran out of the house when I heard gunshots and he stopped me. He was surrounded, so he screamed at me to run as fast as I could and avoid any living beings. I came across four other turians and I was too frightened to stop when they told me. I didn’t know who would kill me and who would help me. When the shooting stopped I, I ran back to him and found him like this. He said that you should check his omnitool. That’s all I know.” she felt small when Heros’ hand touched her shoulder. The size of his palm was big enough to cover her whole head. Shepard let him pat her on the back, rejoicing in this sliver of touch. 

“Spirits, that was why he was advocating for...excuse me, Shepard miss. You must be tired after such a night. Hadia will be here in short order to check up on you.” he bowed his head to her and motioned to leave. 

“Wait, please! I need to know...” she took a step forward, but kept her hand on the tree. “I need to know if Garrus is safe. Where is he? What happened to him?” 

“He's fine. Don’t make the mistake of fixating on him, Shepard miss. He was just doing his job, it was nothing personal.” he replied dispassionately, fixing her with his reptile eyes. She tried not to flinch from that gaze.

“Of course, I understand that.” 

She turned her eyes to the other guards surrounding her and nodded towards them, beckoning them closer. They approached warily, after Vakarian nodded his approval. 

“Could you help me say the words of respect for the departed warrior?” 

Heros turned around as if lightning hit him, fixating beady eyes on her. His heavy gray and blue armor made that movement appear clumsy and rushed. 

“How do you know the words for the departed warrior?” he asked incredulously. 

“A soldier taught them to me, on another planet.” 

He cursed and came closer, shooing the guards away. 

“Shepard, please do not use my son’s name, I’ve worked very hard to keep him away from this controversy.” 

“I would never hurt him on purpose, but if you attack the human homeworld of Shanxi and my people die, we will be on opposite sides of a war. Ah, I see surprise in your eyes. You thought I wouldn’t know about that. That I’m some _hrotiva_ that you can easily discount. Our homeland will never be subjugated!” she growled, raising her voice just enough so it would not carry towards the other squad members. 

“There is nothing you or I can do about Shanxi. I don’t want to attack your homeland, but the reality is that your kind are a threat to galactic peace and we must put a stop to these intrusions into turian space.”

“Good luck and good-bye, Chief Hawk. You’re going to need it where you’re going. Please tell the other guards that I am ready for my transfer now.” 


	17. The advantage of maturity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus struggles with the results of his decisions. An unexpected message makes him take an unusual decision.

Garrus looked at the intriguing display on his desk. Anxiety slowly crept up in his gizzard upon seeing no files, no datapads and everything sparkling with cleanliness. Stuck to his monitor projector was a note written in Dania’s elegant penmanship. He was passable in written asari, but speaking it was entirely another matter. Before his translator implant had a chance to rescramble it into something he could digest, he took a second to admire the asari script. It flowed seamlessly, flourishing in crisp, thick lines on the ascender, to detour into sharp trickles that merely scratched at the ivory page where the letters ended. Asari writing was much more pictographic than turian, whose main claim in the galaxy is that they had the simplest alphabet, a series of cuneiform slashes looped together with circular strokes. As he brushed his index finger over the letters, his translator came alive and turned the text before his very eyes into sense and meaning. 

“Enjoy your clean desk, you nathak. We’re even now.” 

“Vakarian, how’s your friend?” 

Varcen had snuck up behind him, an unusual feat for a turian the size of a mountain. He wore tight fitting blue-tinged camo utility pants, the pattern overlayed with black aramid fabrics along the thighs and tail bone, tucked neatly in his combat boots. A light duty black and gray tunic completed the ensemble, complimenting his tapered waist and the gray color of his plates. Garrus turned to look at him and took a step forward. 

Varcen was tall even for a turian, towering a head above Garrus and muttering obscene curses each time he had to duck his head in a doorway to avert hitting his face. His face markings were minimalistic, two white stripes on each of his high cheekbones and two more atop his brow, giving his face the appearance of a sculpted jawline and longer, bigger eyes the color of sandstone. He’d always been the squad’s introvert, Garrus realised, never quite fitting in, but not nearly on the fringe of the group. His usual morose behaviour was often offset by a genuine good nature and willingness to help, such that each squad member was in his debt in one way or the other. Varcen would listen, offer council, but never volunteer information about himself unless asked. 

“Which one are you asking about? Because none of them are in great shape.”

“I’m sorry, Varihierax was my commander, too, and I ate enough bullets with Silva and Forks to care about both. And you? How are you feeling?” 

“I’ve been better, but thanks for asking. Some days are better than others. If this is about me taking time off, I’m sorry, but I don’t want to have this conversation again.” 

“It’s not my place to do that. As long as you can still perform your duties and are mentally sound, you know best what you need.” 

Garrus picked up a datapad from his stack and lightly dusted off the frame.

“I met Forks’ mother, she wants us all to participate in the ceremony, if we can.”

“He was a good officer. Good partner.”

Garrus nodded, not quite making eye contact with Varcen. Forks’ whole life was being reduced to a single facet in front of his eyes. Hero. Traitor. In life you are so many things, but in death singularity engulfs everything, distilling your essence to a drop, slowly evaporating. Varcen looked away from Garrus, breaking turian protocol as their eyes naturally drifted apart.

“Do you ever think this whole peaceful coexistence in the galaxy is a lot of crock?” Varcen shivered, seeming regretful for having uttered that. It was seen as the height of separatist tendencies in turians to question the Citadel space melting pot.

“I believe more in that than coexistence within the same species.” he sighed, thumbing Dania’s note. Varcen’s secondary syrinx still warbled lowly as his eyes affixed to the piece of paper.

“Is that Dania’s writing?” 

“Yes.” he didn’t feel comfortable sharing more than that “Do you know where she is?” 

“She’s been assigned to Gurlan’s squad. You missed the going away party.” 

“I haven’t really...I’ve been very busy, sorry. I’ll make it up to her.” 

“Vakarian, if you need…”

Varcen was on the brink of doing something embarrassing to both of them in their current social status, but restrained himself. Garrus felt relieved when the heavy-footed turian turned on his heels, did a quick head bow and left. 

The past two weeks had been a blur to him, marked by routine and aimless walks around the Citadel. He’d found himself more than once waking out of his daze in Little Cipritine, longing for a taste of home. The high, crenellated parapets of the buildings, with their dazzling columns almost obscuring the Citadel’s purple night sky, brought back memories of Ceres market back home, with all its madness of sound and smell. Time and again his footsteps would take him to the dextro market where he could bathe in the sensory overload that drowned out his own disjointed thoughts. The smells, the spices, the meat, the bustle of turians and the odd quarian haggling for produce left him drained and ready for sleep. On the tenth day, he was drawn to a flower shop that had a conservatory attached to it. The entrance was beautifully wrought from a mature red demeia plant, weaved and cajoled into the shape of an arch. 

Lil had loved demeia flowers. She had once hired a cleaning service for the sole purpose of watering her apartment’s demeia for the many months she spent on Ostia. Bellator had shaken his head and muttered about privileged people, but Lil had not seen anything wrong with her actions. It was just part of her nature to care for the living things in her life. Once, he corrected himself. He’d left the shop with a pack of ciperot seeds, a flower pot and organically engineered Palaven soil. They now stood nested one on top of the other in the corner of his apartment’s kitchenette, waiting to be made life.

Whenever he could, he would visit Bell in the hospital, braving the scores of anti-terrorist security filters set up for his safety. It took him an average of two hours from beginning at the cordon to Bell’s bed. He joked with the guards that it would have been easier to get himself shot so he could see his friend, but they were dour turians, chosen for the job as much for their lack of humor as for their zealous adherence to protocols. 

They didn’t speak about Lil during his visits, as if they were both understood that it was something far too painful for them to go through once more. Garrus had learned how she’d died, and it kept him awake at night. News travels fast across C-sec sections, and a scandal such as this practically blazed a trail through the Citadel streets in its wake. Some incompetent nurse forgot to check her teeth for a poison implant, so they found her still writhing body blocking the door. The convulsions had broken both her arms and one ankle, and the maddening pain had caused her to smash her head on the door until she left a bloody imprint on the metal. A terrifying way to go. 

He sighed and sat on his chair, praying to every deity available that his omni wouldn’t ring. For once, it didn’t. He was exhausted from everyone’s well wishes and unsubtle prying into his life and emotional state. The physical wounds had healed and knit far before the emotional ones were even at the point of crusting over. As he slumped, he could feel each part of his body as if it were someone else’s, bone and sinew, muscle and blood and no room for more.

He pulled up the menu and called Bell. 

“Hey, fidus, how are you feeling?” 

“Less than dead, fuck you for asking.” Bell chuckled, finally accepting the vidlink. He looked gaunt and hollowed, his cheekbones protruding in striking contrast to his jawline. “What are you up to?” 

“Just thinking about you, you know. Spirits, when are they going to let you out? You’ve been in the hospital since turians still worshipped Artia, you slug. Get your act together.”

“Oh, pardon me for having a deadly concussion, four broken ribs and two broken ligaments. All I really wanted was to be your drinking buddy while you wallow in self pity. I could really use a drink.”

“Are you allowed one?” he asked, wondering when his voice had gotten so deep. 

“No. Are you going to bring me one?” 

“No. Maybe. Damn you.” he smiled seeing Bell’s best impression of a silent plea. 

“They said I’ll be out soon, so let’s make it an anticipated comeia party between the two of us, eh? Will you attend Forks’ going away party?” 

“Yeah, I...I was actually going to.” 

“Remember to send the dalatrass compassion from all of us, you hero. Forks owed me money, so he’s closer kin to me than any on that goddamn squad.”

“My dad adopted you, you morkai. Aren’t we close enough kin?” 

“Yeah, but Forks was…” 

“Bell, I’m sorry. I have another call waiting on the urgent line. I’ll call you back.” 

“Vakarian, it sickens me to do this, but I’ve failed and you are my last chance at retribution.” the voice cut off at this point, hacking and gurgling “The human is in danger. You must get to her before they do. They’re holding her in the safehouse in the Indira district in Cipritine. I know you care. Go.” A score of gunshots finished the message, each sounding as if they’d touched bone and meat. The caller ID was blank. 

The room suddenly felt chill and damp at the same time. Garrus turned up the heating unit in his armor. The slant of the sun on the panoramic window cast shadows, playing off the desks in a myriad of angled shadows that crisscrossed the heavy-duty moquette. No one else seemed to notice him slipping off, but that was a preposterous notion. Who would question a field officer leaving with a determined step? 

With each stride forward, thoughts became ideas, ideas became steps and steps became action. Garrus Vakarian looked at his watch, then tapped two times on his omni’s holoprojector and braced himself. It felt liberating to do something for once. 

“Patri, do you remember Daya? Yes, of course, hmm...yes I know you’re still friends with her dad. Of course, I know I haven’t called them in a while, I just...Patri, patri, please listen to me for a minute. I want to get married.” 

Pause. 

“I know I’m young, patri. I won’t leave C-sec, I still like it here. I’m almost 27, most people my age already have a steady relationship. It wasn’t like that with Lil and I, on the contrary, but her death and what happened to Bell made me think that...well, if I die tomorrow, what have I lived for? What do you mean about focusing on my career? You and mom always managed to balance it out with your careers and I want that chance too. I know Bell made a mistake with Savia, but it was his mistake to make and they were both a lot younger.”

It was turning out to be a lot harder than he had anticipated. 

“I want you and mom to go talk to Daya’s family clan. She is stable, dependable and our citizenship positions match. What? No, wait, don’t put matri on. Hi matri, how are you? Listen matri, I don’t have too much time, but patri was not joking. I want you two to settle up a meeting between our families. I’ll apply for personal time off to conclude the negotiations and marriage, the Executor will probably be happy to see the back of me for a while, until things cool off. I love you too, matri.” he said before disconnecting the call, vaguely amused by his parents’ reaction. 

Predictably, the Executor was not only happy to approve his request, but was almost tripping all over himself to make sure he’d go. As luck would have it, he found a place on a charter flight leaving for Cipritine the following day. 

His plan set in motion, he began walking towards the shuttles that would take him to the Kithoi ward hospital.


	18. Europa’s shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard sees a vision of the past and can't stand the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: I had to lay low on this account, which is why everything went on hiatus. Some people found my account and managed to link it to my real life identity. Although it shouldn't be like this, I'm in a professional position where I have a lot to lose if it got out that I enjoy writing fanfic. The coast is clear for now and I can return to my beloved fic. Once the story is complete I will sadly have to change my username for good (not just a pseud), or orphan the work. Thank you for being patient

The salarian in the white lab coat introduced a series of information in the datapad, his hand moving at such speed that Shepard could barely follow. Salarians reminded her of her first commanding officer, who always seemed high on cocaine and unable to do one thing at a time. Inefficient. Use of time important. Shepard objected to the fact that brushing your teeth while peeing in the shower was an efficient use of time. 

“Shepard, your file is incongruous. Says here you suffer from soldier syndrome. Turians. Everyone suffers with them. All their army suffers from soldier syndrome. Such euphemisms for putting your children through the grinder. But I digress. You don’t have the symptoms.” He scrunched his nasal orifice higher, inhaling sharply and snorting. 

“Mutab, I’ve been through a lot. What are we doing today?” she asked, swinging her dangling feet under the examination bed.

“Ah, yes, visual accuracy today. Just have to finish analyzing yesterday’s lab results. Humans surprisingly psychologically and physically resilient. And genetically diverse. Your genetic markers show resistance to multiple cross-species contaminants. Could even use your results in medical trials, but not enough data. If only there were more of you.”

“There’s bucketloads of me where I come from.”

“Yes, but whatever bucketloads means, it’s not here.” 

“I know...Doc, can I go to the bathroom?” 

She waited until he was firmly plastered to the microscope, examining her blood samples as if they were a lifeline in a stormy ocean. She had taken a liking to Mutab’s singularly obsessed nature. He did not mince words. To him, she was a fascinating test subject. Yet he treated her like a person and even seemed to enjoy her company over the other scientists and soldiers, most of them turian. He’d even dispatched her usual guards after a week, claiming that they disrupted the scientific process. She suspected Mutab did not like turians much, or other people in general. Shepard had once thought she glanced another human through a semi-opaque lab window, but she quickly discounted that as a hallucination of her homesick brain.

“Yes, yes, you know where it is.”

Shepard got up slowly from the bed, in no rush to go out the door. She could hear the guards pace away from the door and back to the guard station for their shift change. 

“Can you open the door for me? I’m not allowed access to and from labs.” 

Muttering to himself, Mutab rushed to the door and input his code without giving her a second glance. He smelled off to Shepard, an indescribable mixture of alien scent and familiar medical odors. If she had thought turians were wronged by biology, salarians were even odder. The first time she saw Mutab, she blinked until she was sure her eyes were focusing right. The twentieth century abounded with depictions of wide-eyed, gray or possibly green aliens with long arms, big, black eyes and flat faces. Mutab had kind eyes, at odds with the devilish horns that split his forehead down the middle. It took a while before she got used to him. Like most reptiles on Earth, a salarian’s skin shimmered when the light hit it, adding and iridescent layer to Mutab’s ochre coloring and unnerving Shepard to her core. She’d wondered whether salarians had been to Earth and had actually run tests on humans. They seemed to love tests. 

She snuck out into the empty hallway, measuring her steps on the carpet, controlling her noisy breathing. The space station was beautiful and so unlike anything she’d seen on Palaven or on Earth. For once, it was huge. The fact that it was self-sustainable in space was a feat of engineering humans had not yet managed. They’d left their blue rock wholly unprepared for the vicissitudes of space, much like explorers of days long gone. And much like them, countless human spaceships had become galactic flotsam before they reached another habitable planet. They crawled where salarians soared. And where turians reinforced each inch of space with concrete and dull metals, the salarians populated it with plants and bright, summer colors. The walls were overflowing with life in green, blue and yellow plants, strategically terraced so that the higher level of foliage covered the lower without obscuring it. 

She stopped in front of a door painted an off red with white stripes and fumbled with the controls. She could never get it right on the first try. The daunting orange display turned red once, then twice as she went through the menu and selected wrong options. 

“Who the zombie-loving fuck puts options on a shitter? Ooh, do you want a crotch tickle with your penile probe? Ceeeertainly!” 

“May I help you, Shepard-miss?” she heard a turian and yelped, turning around already beet red. “Ah, I see you have trouble with the bathroom code. Salarians have a penchant for overcomplicating things. Here you go.” he added and almost effortlessly input the proper code.

“Thank you. I’m sorry if you overhead…”

“It’s ok, I suspect the menu has a secret cloaca massage option myself. Haven’t found it yet, but I keep trying.”

She gathered the courage to look up to him, all seven foot of him. He was younger than she expected, judging by the sheen of his exoskeleton. The trim black and red uniform imparted in him an air of ferociousness which his bright yellow eyes did not reciprocate. He reminded Shepard of Garrus in the easy way that he accepted her, in the cock-sure way he spoke to her. She pushed those thoughts aside. 

“Well, I best be going. You look off, did you paint your cheeks red?” the young guard added and stepped closer, burrowing his eyes on her face.

“No, no, humans regularly blush when they’re...put on the spot. Thank you.”

“Are you sure you’re not an asari experiment? They do that, too. And I could use a few credits in my chit for finding this out.”

“If we are, I wouldn’t know it. I’m just a lowly soldier, like you.” she smiled and waved to him, walking through the door at full speed. 

Once inside, she grabbed hold of the aluminum sink and started shivering, steadying herself on the edges. The mirror-screen reflected a stranger back at her. Gaunt, sallow skin clung to bone like a thin shift holding together a sack of sticks. Her mouth had contorted into a permanent scowl, the lines on each side accentuating the loss of her once full cheeks. Her eyes alone were still alive, igniting her face with pure resolve. She snuck into a stall and closed the door behind her.

Shepard dropped her pants and pulled on her panty lining until she found the small tear she sought. Carefully, she pulled out the omnitool and clasped it in her left arm. The booting sequence was quick, a flash of an orange planet disintegrating into smaller parts. It made no sound. Shepard had taken pains to translate the turian script into English. She was fluent in the Common Alliance, an offshoot of a dead language called Esperanto, modern English and historical French. She’d always been passionate about languages and proto-modern civilisation. It hadn’t yet sunk in that she was the first human to translate an alien language and was on the edge of a discovery so big it would shake the entire Sol system and all exocolonies. She was proud of her small achievement. Captivity had narrowed her focus down to the stringent present needs. 

She pushed the button and heard a soft female turian voice breathing almost in her ear: 

“The contact you are trying to call is outside of Citadel space. Connections to Munihilex currently encounters a 2 minute delay while the asteroid is in the dark phase of its revolution. Your exonet bandwidth is not large enough to allow videocall. Do you accept the present terms?” 

She grit her teeth and sighed.

“I accept.” 

“Who is this?” a raspy, baritone voice answered, too quick for Shepard to gather her thoughts. She’d been waiting for a week for this opportunity and had rehearsed countless scripts. Her throat was now sewn shut, without a word. 

“Speak, my child.” 

“I don’t know if they can hear me.” 

“This line is protected.”

“I’m the human Eritrus died to protect. I’ve been told to call you.”

“Is anyone with you?”

There was no trace of fear or restlessness in that voice. Shepard could easily imagine the smuggler on the other end as a kindly old pastor with merciful eyes and a face lined with experience. 

“No. I am completely alone.”

“You have me now. And I finally know where you are. You’ve done good, child. Eritrus was a good friend, I will make sure you are delivered from harm.” 

“Poros, is that your name?” 

“To the important few.”

She peeked her head out of the stall and surveyed her surroundings, finding the walls just as impeccably white as they were empty.

“When?”

“Soon. Be prepared. You are strong. You can resist.” 

She said goodbye and hung up. A restlessness took over her and she had to lean on the stall door for balance. Freedom. She dared not hope what she could not imagine. Shepard could not see herself off this spaceship, let alone leaving towards Earth. How could she? She could not trust that Poros was not trying to find out where her home planet was for his own purpose. By now, the turians were probably upon Shanxi, decimating the few colonists there. If she was able to make it to Shanxi, she would help the army. She knew them better than any human and could speak to them. And if things were dire, she could warn Earth. 

“Steady, Shepard. Hope is a dangerous thing.” 

Her feet had stopped shaking. She made her way outside and heard Mutab’s raised voice penetrating the walls and reverberating across the hallway. Other scientists and guards, both turian and salarian, had left their own labs to hear better. 

“Impossible. I oppose this asinine measure! Who was the cloaca who authorised this?” 

A female voice responded calmly, but impatiently. 

“You don’t have the authority to question this. I’d stick to my own damn beakers and samples if I were you.” 

“This is my study and I will not give up my main subject! Who do you think you are?” Mutab’s nasal inflections had gotten worse during the argument, which seemed to go on in two distinct languages. The short pauses between translations served to annoy the two participants even more. 

“Where are you taking her? I demand to know!”

“No, no, not again.” Shepard’s stomach dropped and she backed away from the crowd, which had only now turned and realised she was there. Most of them removed themselves from her, retreating back to their laboratories as if they hadn’t seen her. As of she didn’t even exist

The new guard shift surrounded her within seconds and escorted her back to her sleeping quarter without a word. She could still hear Mutab argue as they closed the door to her room, but it was now more of a plea than a refusal.

“They’re moving me again. And this time it could be my last.” she spoke to the pillow, her hands claws in which she crumpled the sheet. Shepard raised her head and was met with a wall. “No, not again.” 

She got up from the bed and started screaming. All of the pent up frustrations, the humiliations, the inhuman loss of her husband, her colleagues and friends, her family, her home and finally, her dignity. She had been poked, prodded, bled and made to run on a treadmill like a hamster. She had been observed and questioned and silenced and drugged for weeks on end. Death, all around and within her. 

She didn’t sleep that night. The following day, she stopped eating again. It felt too much like a chore. The warden didn’t say a word as he removed the food and water. No one else came to visit her. When it was time for her daily walk in the greenhouse, a measure that Mutab imposed “following ill treatment on the part of the turians”, she went along meekly with the guards, but she couldn’t bring herself to walk. She sat herself down by the cicamora tree to the side of the greenhouse enclosure and slumped down. The two guards spread to the exits and let her be.

“Oh, Jane, Jane, where are you now? What’s happening to you?” she spoke to the ground and dug her hands in the rotting leaves spread around her. 

_Is there really no more fight in me? Why am I giving up? What if this was Poros’ plan all along? It couldn’t have been, it was too sudden. Hope, God damn you. I should have never hoped._

It was warm inside the greenhouse. The massive overhead panes of light were strategically placed so that each plant and blade of grass got their due. She basked in the artificial sunlight, allowing the warmth to spread through her and within her. 

As she chased her thoughts into dark corners, a blinding flash of pain shot through her head and she doubled over, puking green bile on the soft foliage at her feet. She lifted her head, suddenly heavy and saw Eritrus’s inert body lying at her feet, his eyes fixed on her. His jaw was surrounded by a froth of blue blood that foamed with each laboured breath he took. The blue tunic that gave him such poor protection was wet and caked with blood, the gold tresses and cuffs matted with dark blue. The grass undulated around him, clinging to the blood, drinking it eagerly like a newly whelped calf. There was no reproach in those deep set gray eyes. He was muttering something, slowly spreading out the words between breaths. 

“Please, please help me, I’m suffocating. Don’t let me die! I beg you.” 

“I...I can’t help you, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

She got up and turned away from him in horror, only to be met by Moore’s body writhing and convulsing, ripping the ground clean around him.

“Please, please help me, I’m suffocating. Don’t let me die! I beg you.” 

She backed away and swerved to avoid another shadow that looked suspiciously like Chandra. She was surrounded by amorphous shadows now, getting closer to her with each step she took. She stopped pacing, but they did not relent their advance. The gray mass shifted restlessly, changing to faces both familiar and unfamiliar like a wave crashing in a storm. Dead, all of them. There was Jaroslav, there Alexei, here Eritrus, all of them suffocating and pleading, begging for her to save them. She fell to her knees, closing her eyes and covering her ears so the ungodly chant could not reach her anymore. She kept repeating towards the air around her that she couldn’t, she was sorry.

“Mommy? Mommy, why are you crying?”

She opened her eyes and a small girl with her red hair glistening auburn in the light stood among the pristine row of white flowers ahead, her face scrunched up in worry. Her flowing black dress billowed with a force entirely its own in the windless atmosphere. She came closer and as she did, the shadows receded one by one to Shepard’s peripheral vision, then left altogether.

“Jane, Jane!” she reached out for the little girl, but her head hurt so much that she fell on the ground, her elbows buckling under her weight. The taste of dirt and alien grass in her mouth made her want to puke again. Her perspective on the world dimmed and shifted until it felt like looking through a dark tunnel at night.

“Shepard, Shepard, what is wrong?” she thought she heard a turian voice. She couldn’t be sure it was real. None of it seemed or felt or tasted real. She tried pushing aside the opaque curtains in front of her, blinking rapidly to focus her eyes. In the haze of confusion, the little girl turned into a turian guard looking at her with genuine worry. More shadowy voices could be heard entering the greenhouse, raising such a furor as to wake the dead where they slept.

She blacked out. Secretly, she hoped she was dying. There were no other options. 

***  
Mutab took the hammer to the beakers and microscope slides one by one as he waited for the data to be erased from the central unit. The sound of glass smashing was immensely satisfying. He’d taken ample precautions to insure the cloacas on this space station did not have access to his research. Encrypted hard drive, no access to the local, global or exonet network, multiple biometric identification methods against hacking. NDAs be damned, he saw how the other scientists frothed at the mouth for his specimen, as if they could already savour this delicious morsel of academic recognition and praise. He saw in their eyes how they pictured themselves authors of groundbreaking intragalactic science in need of an assistant to coordinate their mass effect jumps throughout the known universe for tepid conventions and stale talks. It took one to know one, after all. 

Now they were moving his specimen against his will, against any reason or logic, and “delivering her to a privately-held environment better suited for her needs” . That insolent asari tried to couch it in diplomatic terms. He knew what that meant. They sold her off to the highest bidder, some rich asshole with a megalomaniacal streak and a menagerie of freaks at his disposal, for the entertainment of his guests. He shuddered to think what that entertainment meant. 

Mutab had had a fully bonded pack of varren he’d been training to help against soldier syndrome, but the turians balked at introducing what they called foreign predatory species to their fragile ecosystem. As if a bunch of walking rocks blasted by radiation constituted fragile. So they sold his work and varrens to a krogan warlord, claiming these were varren super soldiers. They ended up as stew once the frustrated warlord realised they liked to cuddle rather than mangle.

“Where did I go wrong?” Mutab questioned the shards littered over the desk like waves in a sea. “I was a brilliant scientist back on Sur’kesh, respected, loved, even feared. I was greedy. Too greedy. I didn’t like the University’s involvement in my experiments. An unaffiliated lab on a neutral space station in the Terminus put me above the petty ethical squabbles, but at what cost? But at what cost?” 

He’d screamed and yelled and threw a tantrum at the station director, but the bastard was implacable. 

“You knew the risks, he said, what did you think we’d do, harbour a galactic threat indefinitely? The Empire wanted to be rid of her and I think that’s smart, so that is what we’re going to do. Bah, to Bar’kesh with him! Smart! The turian couldn’t recognize smart if it landed on his airstrip of a forehead!” he mocked the warden’s voice, adding a whiny tone to the turian’s flange. 

He’d advised them that moving her again was unsafe, that she’s been through too much for any sentient creature to bear. To come from a world view where your species was alone in the galaxy to finding out that there were countless others in the universe was more than a jolt of culture shock. Deaf, the lot of them. They parachuted her from prison to prison, rattling the contents of her brain through at least two mass effect jumps before finally dumping her in a science facility. It came as no surprise to him that she'd had a psychotic break upon hearing that she will be moved again. Too much uncertainty, too fast, too little data about human psyche to do that. 

When they called him to Shepard’s side, she was awake, but catatonic. There was nothing to do about it. Normal bodily responses, reflexes and pupils, but no indication of mental recognition. A drooling animal, that’s what they reduced her to. All the fuel in the tank, but no button for ignition. He cursed the turian guards, the asari soldier and the warden in one fowl breath, turned and shoved his hands in his labcoat.

Mutab’s long fingers tapped on the keyboard once, twice, thrice to check for any memory clusters not erased or overwritten. It wouldn’t do to have them find a completely empty hard drive, else they’d get suspicious too soon. By now, most of the information he needed had been shipped neatly to his contact in the Salarian Special Forces. He would savour his victory and be be glad for the scandal that he hoped would burn through Citadel space like a spark through flammable moss. The turians would pay for their insolence. 

He felt sorry for Shepard, who was now no more than an unwitting lab specimen. Mutab closed his laboratory and departed the space station, looking back only to make sure he wasn’t followed.


	19. High affairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus leaves his home for the last time. Two destinies separate. A poor mechanic finds himself in need of a ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dictionary and worldbuilding reference 
> 
> _gantus_ = turian gloves, designed especially to conceal their talons. It is considered highly impolite for a turian to venture outside of the house without them, as baring your talons is considered a sign of aggression.

Garrus Vakarian woke up fully rested as soon as the Citadel changed to daylight illumination. His home controller reacted to the space station’s artificial seasons, lighting and heating his flat to meet a turian’s needs. Used to a more military life, Garrus Vakarian thought that it was indulgent. The heat was constantly just a couple of degrees too hot, the water a touch too warm and the kava a tad too scorching on his tongue. He’d never been comfortable indoors. Home was a good place to rest and recharge, but it was always so laden with expectations of domestic bliss and total abandon that he would feel suffocated by inactivity. He craved a bed of rocks, turning up his armour’s heating unit and murky, lukewarm drinks served next to a raging fire. All turians value their homes, for want of seeing them after the age of fifteen. Not him. 

The only upside to the controller’s tyrannical hold on comfort were the sights of an immense space station waking to life, the bustle of crowds of dozens of species milling about or walking purposefully to their jobs, the modern steel-and-glass buildings that shot out defiantly into space and even the busy morning traffic, congesting up most of the airspace within minutes of the rapid transit opening up for the day. 

Garrus got out of bed with a ritual he had perfected since his days in the C-sec Academy, jolting upright before his brain had had a chance to catch up to the soreness his body felt and slinging his feet over the mattress and onto the rough surface of his concrete floor. He felt the consequences of multiple injuries and repeated stim use each morning in the dull aches and sudden wrist pops, in the brainfog and the momentary confusion as he sat up and stretched. His house controller would have detected his waking up and already warmed his water, lowered the ambient temperature and increased the light. He took a slow shower, enjoying the water as much as he could, going so far as to clog the drain and let it rise up and warm his ankles. Being cramped on a spaceship to Palaven required sufficient ablations to drown a wooly reptide.

He balanced a xemna roll and coffee in one hand while, with the other, he took his best civilian suit out of the emptied closet, inspecting the cuffs and buttons for wear and tear. Satisfied with his sewing work of the night before, he approached the bow window as he dressed and stared at the traffic, gently petting the seedling ciperiot plant’s pot when he was done. He wondered what possessed him to buy that plant and why he’d decided to plant it, only to leave it behind with Dania. Odds and ends, flotsam and jetsam. Garrus Vakarian turned away from the window and straightened up, realising the suit was just a bit too small for him, especially around the shoulders. He refused to admit that he’d gotten fat, cinching his waist belt one notch tighter in protest. 

As he chewed the last of his breakfast, he noticed the time and froze. It was getting late. He dashed out the door, only to realise he’d forgotten his luggage. With one hand on the access card and the doorknob, he half-squeezed through the opening, picked up his duffel bag and bolted. It was far too heavy for what he’d planned. 

At the same time as Garrus Vakarian is travelling in the rapid transit shuttle that would take him to his death, a faceless turian is waking up in a dirty motel somewhere along the Wards access corridor, alone among travelling mercenaries, prostitutes of varying species and volus stock merchants. He avoids the shower altogether, afraid of catching a plethora of diseases, but most of all afraid he’d puke at the sight of the grimy, greasy bathroom tiles and the towels that still had barely-washed blood stains on them. 

This gray-plated faceless turian took out a mirror compact and stared at himself, bemused. Satisfied, he put on his mechanic overalls and went downstairs, anticipating a damn delicious breakfast at the corner dextro diner. It was incredible what people could do when they openly flaunted food safety laws. The last touch to his wardrobe were his working gloves, which he stuffed into the back pocket and went on his way. He kept his head down and his hands in his pockets, still amazed that no one was questioning the fact that he was not wearing gantus. Back home, he would’ve had at least four people remarking on that before he even swiped his rapid transit card. Here, the asari merc he shared the elevator with didn’t even give him the courtesy of looking in his general direction as she checked her gun, replete with illegal mods. So careless. He instinctively moved his messenger bag closer to his body.

He chose the table furthest from the door, right next to the gaudy bar. A few hanar fertility trinkets dangled suspended from the ceiling as the barman moved lazily from the kava machine to the few early morning drinkers. Or perhaps they weren’t early, merely hadn’t concluded their night before. A volus economist of some prominence sat slumped in the tall barstool and with each laboured breath he slipped just a little closer to the ground. The faceless turian waited, trying not to appear too nervous. He decided that picking up a datazine pad from the overflowing news stand and perusing today’s blockbuster news would calm his nerves. He didn’t take his eyes off his messenger bag for the duration of his short walk.

“Been’ tryna quit?” the squat, barrel-chested quarian bartender approached him and chuckled, setting the breakfast tray down with inexplicable elegance. 

“Quit?’ the faceless turian mouthed, unsure of himself. He looked down at his shaking hands and sweaty palms and mustered up a weak smile “Yeah, my old lady tr-tryna make me ditch the drink.” 

“Hang’n there, it gets better. Ten years sober myself.” he added and, after quick consideration, returned with a sweet chinta roll “Here, buddy, on the house. Don’t mean nothing by it, jest know how hard it’c’n be.” 

“T-thanks, fidus. How can ya still be around the drink without...you know?” 

“Relapsing? Hah! I jest remind myself I almost lost the bar, the one thing that mattered to me in life and I get over it. Sure, ya feel good for the moment, but it ain’t worth losing everythin’ to it.” 

After that, the bartender left him to his own devices and the faceless turian sighed in relief. Not long after he’d licked the last of the chinta cream from his fingers a batarian walked in and, without hesitating, sat at his table. The newcomer was tall and lanky, with elongated hands and thin fingers that finnicked constantly with the buttons on his jacket. The faceless turian tried to commit to memory the batarian’s features, but it was exceedingly hard. So utterly mundane was he that each time the turian moved his eyes away from the newcomer’s face, it was as if a pall was dragged over his memory, erasing everything. 

“What do you want?” the batarian bared his teeth in a grisly smile, eyeing him as if he were an item on the menu. He was none too pleasant a sight even without smiling. 

“Information.” the turian retorted, shifting his weight so his gloves would stop digging into his backbone.

“You clearly don’t have the money for what you’re asking. I’m wasting my time here.” he brought his hands on the table and pushed back the chair, angling to leave. 

“I don’t, but I have more information. Perhaps your boss would like to know what the big buzz is in Palaven.” the faceless turian smiled, knowing full well he’d sunk his talons deep.

“And how would you know anything about Palaven?” the batarian feigned indifference, but the turian could feel the musky smell of greed. 

“I know what the shipment from Ostia contained, and I guarantee, it was no Prothean disk. What I need to know is where it’s going to end up, in exchange for what it is. And you’re going to tell me.” 

“Listen, fidus, if you think that’s how business is done, your brain is shackled to your butt. First you tell me the information, then I decide whether you’re worth your price.” 

It was enraging to hear the batarian use the familiar term for a friend, but he let it slip by.

“The information broker promised that I would get just payment. How do I know you’re not just going to take this and run?” he felt hoarse, unable to keep to a polite monotone.

“You don’t, you’ll have to trust me.” 

“And if I don’t?” 

“Then trust the broker’s word, she’s got that big sign on her door, so you know she’s trustworthy. I’m just her footsoldier.” the batarian did a half-shrug, as if the effort of moving both shoulders was too much for this conversation. “And if your information is as juicy as you claim, you’ll get rewarded more than you deserve.” he produced the ghastly grin once more, licking his lips as if to underline his words. His voice was the equivalent of a Keeper dragging metal across glass.

The faceless turian reached into his bag and, with both hands, slid a datapad face-forward towards the batarian. The latter pawed it and tapped the screen twice. 

“What is this?” he raised his voice and narrowed his eyes to slits. 

“I sent the encryption codes to your boss, she should know how to open it by the time you deliver it. Hopefully untampered.” Now it was his time to smile unpleasantly. “Don’t jolt it too hard, I installed a lot of anti-brute force measures to ensure she would be the only recipient.” 

“You’ll pay for this, you filthy slave-stock whelp. You think you’re clever, but I know who you are.” 

“And how will that benefit you? Or are you eager to be tried for treason alongside me?” he smiled as his secondary syrinx kicked in and his voice reverted back to dual tones. 

The faceless turian got up and put a credit chit on the table, forcing his legs in an even and confident cadence. Perhaps the swagger was an exaggeration, but it seemed to have the required effect of boiling the batarian alive. He waved to the bartender, who raised a glass of tenka juice in response. 

Once out, he felt strangely calm about the whole exchange. The shame of inaction started washing away from him, giving him renewed vigour. He slipped back into the Wards access corridor unseen and largely ignored, joining the throng of people moving their way to the Lower Wards. He kept his side pressed to a corridor wall at all times as he walked. A hanar bumped into him and the feeling was so unexpected that he had to freeze his hand just as it was bunching into a fist. For his part, the hanar muttered something about disrespect of personal space before moving on. 

Just as the faceless turian sat down in Chora’s den and ordered a drink, Garrus Vakarian was fidgeting with his biometric passport in the Customs line, poking the implant through his skin. The customs officer on duty was unusually thorough, scanning and checking biometric data against the official record. His throat was closed shut. Customs always gave him the jitters. 

“Mister Vakarian, can you please step to the side? You’ve been selected for an additional check.” the asari customs officer pointed her short, stubby fingers to indicate an area reserved for the purpose of extra screening. “One of my colleagues will be with you shortly.” 

“What seems to be the matter, miss?” 

“My colleague will explain this to you. Can you please step out of the line so I can process the next passenger?” 

He wanted to scream, tear off his clothes and claw out his implant. He couldn’t. Not when there was a crowd gathered to watch. It was seldom that people were randomly chosen for extra screening since identification implants had been deployed on a large scale. He dragged himself to the door indicated by the custom’s office and stopped before opening it. Garrus thought about pulling the compact mirror from his back pocket, but decided against it. It would look suspicious. He settled for arranging his cuffs and dusting off some imaginary specks from his raised collar. A turian officer opened the door and invited him in. 

“Hello, pel Vakarian, please have a seat. My name is Lt. Seba Optimus.” he pointed to a comfortable-looking turian chair with some exaggerated, modernist lines. The use of such a thing in what amounted to an interrogation room was puzzling. Mounted on the wall above it were multiple monitors all tuned to different secret cameras across the spaceport. The obvious secret cameras were projected right behind the first customs officer, but they were doubled or even tripled by better hidden ones.

“Ouch, and here I thought I’d be in and out as fast as can be. What’s going on, officer?” he smiled and took a seat, carefully maneuvering around the steel table. The officer remained standing. He was a very good looking middle aged turian, with broad shoulders, a wasp-thin waist and long, shapely legs. His demeanour was friendly. 

“Pel Vakarian, I’m sorry to bring bad news, but your profile has been flagged for hacking on your biometric data. May I ask why your passport implant is fresh?” 

“Oh, this? I had it changed after the incident in Chora’s den. You must have heard about it, it was all over the news. There were a couple of explosions and...well...I sustained some injuries. The doctors had to update my data after the surgeries.” 

“Were your surgeries, eh, reconstructive?” 

“For sure. Did my bio id trigger some flag in the physical scanners? Because, well...I had to have facial reconstruction. There was an eh, ah, rocket involved in the altercation.” 

“I understand.” said the turian officer, clearly not understanding. “Where were the operations done?” 

“At KCEH. I had a good team, led by a senior salarian surgeon, his name was...I think it was Watts. Or Wojek. Or both. I never have good memory for salarian names, there are too many.” 

The officer started typing something in his terminal and waited for his exonet connection to retrieve the information. His eyes darted back and forth, focusing and unfocusing as he skim read the results. Turians were fast readers, their keen visual acuity allowing them to use their peripheral vision to digest a screen’s worth of reading in one glance.

“Thank you for your time pel Vakarian, everything checks out. I’m sorry for the delay.” 

“No problem and thank you for your service, officer. You and others like you are the reason we grunts at C-sec get less riff-raff to deal with.” 

“Business or pleasure to Palaven?” Seba got up and shook Garrus’ hand, suspicion gone from his handsome features. 

“A bit of both, actually. I’m going to negotiate a marriage to an old friend. I hope she accepts.” he beamed and smiled at Seba, who returned the smile with a friendly nod. 

“Much luck and happiness on your new home!” the officer replied, signalling the end of the conversation. 

Garrus Vakarian boarded the small, low cost transgalactic spaceshuttle at precisely 19:35 GSE on the 29th of Sextilis. At 20:00 GSE of that same day a fleet of turian starships exited the Shanxi-Theta relay and were amassing above the human colony of Shanxi. 

He settled down next to an elderly turian couple and prepared for the rather uncomfortable take-off. Flight attendants were already drilling the passengers on safety protocols, much to the chagrin of frequent travelers. Garrus opened a small plastic box and took out his headphones, plugging them into his aural canals and submerging into a personal bubble of bliss. He allowed himself to daydream away. 

He thought about his mother and father and what a privileged position he was in. The faces of his friends swam before him and he caught himself in a train of thought leading him nowhere in particular. He was preparing to give it all away, to say goodbye to that life and embark on a mad dash towards independence. He hoped Daya would not mind. She seemed on board with the idea once he’d gathered the guts to present it to her. Even excited. 

This is your captain speaking, please prepare for mass effect jump from the Serpent Nebula relay to the Trebia relay. Safety measures are mandatory for this portion of the flight. For first time fliers, you will be experiencing feelings of increased mass and a slight visual discomfort manifesting itself as tunnel vision. Please do not be alarmed, everything will return to normal once we are out of the mass effect field. Your flight attendants are prepared at any point to offer assistance should you need it. Thank you for choosing Therezine for your travelling pleasure. 

Garrus Vakarian felt a sudden jolt and rumble as the shuttle whizzed and sped up in anticipation of being hurtled through space at light-defying speeds. He grabbed onto the armrest and prepared for the most uncomfortable part of spacetravel. 

*  
“Fancy another drink, darling?” the half clothed, or half naked asari wiggled her shapely bum as she did a half-pirouette to stand right behind him. An orange neon leotard flashed before his eyes and a hand found its way to caress his left mandible. “I heard you turians are more sensitive on your left side, does it apply everywhere?” she chuckled as she pressed her breasts into his back, driving her hand ever lower, towards his sensitive waist. He could feel the softness of her flesh. He exhaled slowly into the glass, fogging it over. 

“You’ve got this whole thing down to an art. What’s your special for the evening?” he smirked and took her hand into his, turning his chair so he was facing her toned abdomen. He craned his neck to look her in the eyes.

“Fancy an Asari Temple? Or perhaps a private dance? This is one of my favorite songs, after all.” her rich, velvety voice dripped down at him.

“I’d love to watch you pay your way through Thessia College, but the truth of the matter is that I’m taken. I won’t refuse a good dextro Asari Temple, though.” he let go of her hand and turned his chair so he was no longer staring at her charms. 

“As you say, handsome. Let me know if you reconsider on that private dance. I can show you a damn good time.” she smacked her lips and shook her bottom as she turned away to leave. 

His omni pinged an incoming message, then another and he blanched. Careful as if he was handling a hand grenade, he opened his inbox and settled his left hand on the right hand’s wrist to steady it. 

_Sender: Leila Demerin_  
Date: 29th of Sextilis  
Subject: As to your enquiry 

_Your package has been tracked back to Illium, namely to the Saefos Valley auction. The buyer is an elcor of some renown on Sin’dea or Munihilex, as you call it. He goes by the name Hapa Kalo. He operates the second most famous club in Sin’dea, Elysium, which can be found in the Carrd district. Advise utmost caution should you decide to pursue it._

_Consider all payments settled forthwith._

As was typical of asari, there was no final greeting or well wishing. 

“It’s worse than I thought.”

He scrolled to the other message and heaved a sigh of relief. The text invited him to the Citadel Docks, bay 12. He got up, settled his tab and left Chora’s den behind. 

The docks were flooded with news crews, cameras and busybodies. The glass dome of the waiting area was abuzz with noise and agitated people looking blankly at screens mounted all around. The faceless turian had never seen such a crowd at the docks. He wondered why security allowed such a concentration of targets. It must be some star or socialite come to visit on a diplomatic tour. He maneuvered to walk past the crowds and was struck dumb when he heard a batarian newscaster blathering on to his camera.

_”The tragedy of flight Therezine G4578 marks the first FTL drive failure to bring down a commercial flight since the early days of intragalactic mass effect spaceflight nearly two centuries ago. Therezine Spaceflight’s representative declined our interview request, releasing a statement that the shuttle was thoroughly inspected before take off and that they have opened up an internal inquiry to determine what happened to the Palaven-bound flight._  
Due to the way FTL drives are built, it is believed that the pilot ignored the requirement to discharge the electrical charge during routine maintenance on the Citadel. So far there have been no official statements on whether there were any survivors.  
Among the passengers on board were some notable personalities, such as the turian siarist poet Ludus Veritas and noted volus diplomat Tur Akra. Another victim, C-Sec officer Garrus Vakarian, son of Heros Vakarian, Palaven airforce’s captain, was travelling to Palaven to recuperate after a mission where his squad neutralised a terrorist attack in the Lower Wards.” 

The faceless turian slumped down into a chair, paying no attention to the fact that he had almost sat down on a salarian infant. The dalatrass shot him a withering look and took the crying child on her lap. 

“Spirits, what has this world become?” 

“You could have at least looked before sitting down on my child, are you blind?” 

“Huh?” the faceless turian looked at the snivelling little salarian, his big eyes shut and bulbous forehead shrunk with wrinkles. He then looked at the dalatrass with no idea why she had spoken to him. “I have to go.” he muttered and got up.

“Cloaca.” she spat to him as he left, but he didn’t hear it. 

He barely registered the signs numbering the bays as he passed through doors and bland, gray-colored corridors. He presented his documents when asked by turian officers, marginally aware of the fact that they scoffed at his unpainted face. 

The haze lifted a bit when he saw the sign for Bays 12-16 glowing in front of him. He entered the spacious waiting room, stopping in front of the immense reinforced glass walls looking out into the airstrip and further, into space. He could see other airstrips with ships gearing up to leave, small frigates checking their thrusters, commercial shuttles loading up cargo and corvettes boarding other passengers. In the dim light of twilight, the ships glowed, throwing off glints the size of a person’s head. Pilots and captains emerged regularly from the Staff lounges, some armored and armed, most dressed in lightweight pilot suits.

“Lev Mykonos?” a petite asari tapped him on the shoulder, raising on her tiptoes to do so. 

“Yes. Relia Lefkera?” the faceless turian answered, pivoting on his heels to face her.

“By the goddess, you’re tall. I don’t know if you’ll fit. Eh, I’ve done longer stints in worse off conditions. Come see my girl.” she beckoned and he followed, marching through corridors and jet bays with surprising speed for her diminutive stature. The mechanic cloth she had hanging on the backside of her trousers swung and swayed with each step she took. He became aware of the gloves in his back pocket. Lev took them out and proceeded to slip them on his talons.

“Aw, hey, no need to go all formal on me. I’ve seen turians without gloves before.” she chuckled and slapped his shoulder. There was an easy camaraderie about her, nothing too strained or formal.

“I want to inspect the ship and I’m guessing you don’t want me slashing something important. I don’t want to hurt your girl, I mean to buy her if she’s everything you said in the ad.” 

“Captain’s honor. What do you want with a ship, though? You don’t see many turians interested in foreign craft.” 

She was beginning to slow down a little as they arrived at the jet bridge. He swallowed a panting breath.

“If it’s no skin off your hump, I like to flip ships. Upgrade the electronics, new coat of paint and some flashy mechanical toys and sell them for a profit.” 

“Do you sell them to krogan warlords on the black market? No? Then we’re good.” she narrowed her eyes and squinted at him. “There she is, in all her glory.”

They stopped in front of an older model of an asari scout ship. There was only one way to accurately describe the ship: it had personality. For each dent, for each imperfectly painted detail, Lev saw a story that unfolded in front of his eyes with ease. He reached out to feel the metalwork, light and enduring as most asari crafts. The difference in ship design that each species favored was astonishing. He didn’t have much experience with civilian ships, but this one seemed capable for the task he had in mind. He went through the motions of inspecting it, despite the growing anxiety in his gizzard. The asari captain was oblivious to it. They haggled for a while and, by the time the last datapad transferring ownership was signed, he felt numb. 

He entered the access code on the ship, lowered his head and slumped on the cold wall, his whole throat dry as the desert plains. A shiver passed through his whole body. 

“What am I doing?” he asked the air, hoping that, for once, the spirits would reply. 

“You are sitting prone, at approximately a 45 degree angle.” the command console answered matter-of-factly.

The robotic voice startled him. He shot up, on his feet in no time. 

“Hi, my name is Nania, I am the synthetic intelligence guiding this ship. Would you like to program a travel route, request supplies or repairs?” 

“Program a travel route. We’re heading out to Munihilex.” 

“Turian language pack detected, calibrating destination to Munihilex in the Sahrabarik system. Beginning take-off protocol. Pilot input needed in 15 minutes.” 

He sat down in the pilot seat. The cushions were too soft and the off-beige color was matted in the shape of a tiny asari. Lev reached into his messenger bag, taking out a small wooden box. He opened it gingerly, as if it was about to explode and looked at the contents. A double-edged angled brush was secured above the mirror and, on the other end, a container had spilled a few drops of a tarry, oily substance. He picked up the brush and gently, with the ease of years of practice, dipped it in the paint and began applying his markings. 

When the paint touched his exoskeleton, the color turned a deep, navy blue. He started at his left ear, drew the line diagonally across his face, accentuated the bridge of the nose, then stopped for a moment to look in the mirror. 

“I’m not that turian anymore.” he sighed and put down the brush, speckling the dashboard with paint. Somewhere, a father was mourning the loss of his son, because of what he'd done. 

“No, I'm not that turian anymroe. For once I will do what I feel is right.” 

He picked up the brush and began a downward stroke on his mandible. By the time the fifteen minutes were up, he was ready.


	20. The pink asari

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a new show in Omega, guaranteed to excite and titillate all asari lovers. Shepard meets a new batarian friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dictionary and worldbuilding notes*
> 
> Kalakuu = Traditional elcor clothing valued for its lightness and versatility. The secret of producing fabric that could withstand the harsh conditions of Dekuuna. In receny years batarian industrial spies have stolen the process and have started manufacturing knock-offs on Kar'shan
> 
> Melegem = (batarian) a term of endearment, roughly translated to "my sweetest". 
> 
> Ayip = (batarian) has no equivalent in English, closest approximation would be runt
> 
> Anneko = mother, informal (mom)
> 
> Rigamor = rat-like creature, famous for its voracious appetite.
> 
>  
> 
> Something about the batarians struck me as distinctively Ottoman in their portrayal, although this is more my headcanon. They are great merchants, keen soldiers and an ambitious species. Their language and culture here were therefore inspired by the Ottoman empire. Enjoy an extra-long Shep chapter!

“Contrite. I apologise for the impoliteness of my guards. Angry. Why is the specimen still in cuffs?” the gray mass spoke in a lurching, slow cadence, to Shepard’s surprise. What she had taken for an elephant was a fully intelligent being. “With interest: approach.” 

Geko unlocked the cuffs with a soft click and took his place by her side. The batarian put a gentle hand on her back and nudged her forward, whispering encouragement in her ear. He was only slightly taller than her, with a stocky build and a kindly, if dispassionate face. Shepard did as she was told, approaching the lumbering beast who was her new elcor benefactor. Geko had taken great pains to explain the nature of her new home on the way there, couching things in professional terms for what amounted to slavery, or worse, being reduced to the status of a pet for the rest of her life.

***

“You’re lucky, Hapa Kalo takes great care of his investments. You will enjoy all of the freedoms and perks that others on Kharkohan sometimes work for all of their lives. Clean water, safe spaces, nutritious food, round the clock protection. If you make yourself useful, you might even be allowed to climb the ranks in his service.” 

Her eyes tracked the movement of his mouth. Whenever he spoke, the deep furrows on each side of his mouth plumped up, giving his cheeks the sagging appearance of old age. There was no way she could guess his real age, or whether his lifespan was any different than hers. She chose to focus on the rows of needle thin teeth, as opposed to the disturbing double pair of eyes that blinked consecutively or the four flat nostrils that flared when he exhaled. 

“Give it up Geko, you’ve been at it for the whole journey with shit to show for it. She doesn’t seem to understand anything. They broke her in that research facility. Such a pity, too. Kalo won’t be happy.” the asari gestured to him, raising her hand to call him over to the card game her and a turian were playing in the other room. 

“I can understand.” Shepard raised her head and spoke for the first time in two weeks, forcing herself to look into Geko’s eyes. 

“Jay, did you hear that? She spoke!”

Jay let her cards drop and got up, ignoring the turian’s protests. She turned at the door and smiled towards him.

“You were losing anyway, Cass. Now what’s this here?”

“I’ve been sold into slavery, I understand. They didn’t break me in the science facility. I was unwell.” she spoke softly, wiping the side of the metallic table and checking the dust on her fingers. 

“Do you remember what happened?” Jay took a seat and adjusted her armour. It was made of overlapping black ceramic tiles which compacted or expanded depending on her posture, inlaid with glowing bronze accents on her shoulders, elbows, hips and knees. Her equipment contrasted with Geko’s simple black hardsuit. 

“I...I don’t remember much. I was in the solarium, and then I was in bed and then you appeared. The details are very fuzzy. I must have blanked out.” 

“Polite understatement on your part. What’s your name?” 

“Shepard. It’s the only thing that’s stayed mine so far.” 

“Do you know where you are? And where we’re going?”

“Does it matter? I gather you’re not taking me back home.”

“Answer the question, please.” Geko insisted in an amiable voice.

“I heard what you were saying to me. Kharkohan. Sin’Dea. Munihilex. An asteroid at the end of the world. Far enough to where I won’t be a problem for the Empire, or for any other species that has designs on the human species.”

“That seems like a fitting description for Sin’dea.” Jay admitted.

Munihilex. She’d seen a vid special on it when she was trapped on Ostia. The world without law, the turians called it. The heart of evil. The place of secrets. The land of opportunity. The contradictions in how each species viewed it were fascinating for her at that time. She kept imagining Chandra poring over the meaning, the anthropological differences, the minute details of each species’ cultural worldview. It was the border of the civilised world, the end of the line for criminals, slavers, murderers and all of the people who, for one reason or another, had failed to integrate into Citadel space. The Citadel was the Alpha, this was the Omega. For Shepard, it meant one thing in her present state: unwittingly, these people were bringing her closer to Poros Temkor and her possibility of escaping. If only she could hold on to the shreds of her sanity for long enough to get there. There was a fog clouding the details of her vision, pulling a cloud cover over the colors of the world and the faces of people. Shepard snapped out of her revery when she heard her name mentioned. 

“It’s not slavery in the traditional, batarian sense, Shepard. You’re an indentured servant here. Inserv for short. Hapa Kalo bought your freedom from the research institute, offering you the chance to repay his investment by providing services adequate to your condition and sometimes, previous profession.” Geko smiled and rapped his fingers the table, finishing with a light knuckle tap. 

“In this case, I’m not sure showbiz is adequate to the previous profession.” Jay snorted and placed her hands forward on the table, intertwining her fingers. “Listen Shepard, here’s how things will happen. We’ll drop you off to Hapa Kalo, no fuss, no problems and you’ll get to spend the next couple of galactic standard years in the lap of luxury, until this whole problem boils over. No one will care on Sin’Dea who you were or what you’re doing here, and certainly not what some stickler saps on the Citadel think about it. If they’re curious, they’re gonna pay the admission fee like the rest of us.” 

“Showbiz? Did that translate well?” Shepard asked.

“Don’t they have entertainment in your culture? Singing, dancing, CGI actors, multibillion credit big screen features?” Jay leaned in a bit more, mouth agape. ”Oh-ho, do I have things to show you!” 

“I guess that’s something that translates well across cultures. So I’m to be entertainment for aliens on this asteroid? Like a circus?” Shepard reclined and snorted. “Are you all madder than I am? Is this a joke? I’m a soldier, not a dancer! Can you see how that might be a problem?” 

“I don’t know what a circus is, but she’s right, you know.” Cass butted in, leaning on the door frame. The control mechanism whined in its attempts to close the door. 

“And him - he’s a turian. Turians are repelled by tones and notes I can produce. That all humans can. Why am I even justifying this?” Shepard banged on the table and got up. The fixed chair’s legs hit her calfs and she winced in pain. “Why am I not being given a choice? Has no one on this incredibly stupid chain of moronic decisions thought this through for one moment? My people are being slaughtered by turians and you want me to do a little jig on the stage?” 

“Calm down, Shepard.” Jay pointed to the chair. “Sit. Let us explain.” 

***

Shepard stepped forward, bowing in front of Hapa Kalo. The sight of him was astonishing. He sat on a monstruously large ottoman, his hind legs smaller than his massive forelegs, which he kept firmly on the floor. He moved so little that it was hard to tell if he was breathing or merely a grotesque statue, a gargoyle waiting to crush a passerby at midnight. The vertical slits that must have functioned as both nose and mouth arrested most of his face, leaving only enough room for two twin beady orbs in jet black to hover. His clothes, too, were reminiscent of museum paintings of elephants decked in ceremonial garb: a pair of pants and foreleg sleeves matched in a blue and burgundy corduroy, with a kalakuu covering his exposed backside. 

“Excited. You are everything they said you were. Amazed. You look just like a pink asari. Friendly. Was your trip pleasant? Were the crew good to you?” 

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Hapa Kalo. My name is Shepard, I am a human. I understand that you are my new benefactor. Thank you for saving me from a life as a science specimen. I will work hard to repay you. Jay, Geko and Cass have been very good to me.” she ground out the phrases they’d taught her, as nicely as she could.

“Amused. I see they have drilled you on what to expect and what to do in my presence. With wonder. Your face is incredibly expressive.” he droned on monotonously, prefacing his every statement with an emotional qualificative. The rings on his kalakuu jangled noiselessly with each word or breath like an agitated counterpoint to the lazy cadence. 

Shepard was sweating beneath her tunic, her heartbeat accelerating to the turbulent tune of a distressed pressure gage about to blow. Sequestered away in tight spaces for the better part of two months, she chafed in the asteroid’s vast corridors, tall rooms, interconnected junctions, frenzied marketplaces, and especially in this spacious office at the back of the weapons depot. Cass warned her that this could happen and despite the fact that she blew him off, he was right. 

From cabin fever to agoraphobia in less than the hour it took to get here. At first she was amazed that Omega could hold on to life. The streets and roads were much too small to accommodate many skycars, so everyone was either forced to walk or, if they were better off, use the public transportation that zipped them on a raggedy, rusted railway to their approximate destination. Everything here had the air of crafty improvisation, cobbled up together in haste to prevent depressurization: cracked asphalt was patched up with wavy steel sheets, badly soldered metal structures were covered up with patches of woven burlap and used as stalls to sell unappetizing skewers, outdated technology or objects with the sentimental patina of having been stolen from someone’s home. Dust and debris floated freely in the air in the dusky color of dirty red and orange neons, illuminating the gray passersby who were trudging along through their own intimate hells. On one of the corners, a batarian preacher was billowing out death and brimstone, much to the amusement of dirty tots, who took turns trying to overturn the crate on which he stood. Too much, the sensations were too much.

“Worried. You seem distressed. How are you feeling?” 

“Tired. May I get my assignment now?” she grunted, wiping away the droplets on her brow. 

“Intrigued. Why is everyone in the galaxy in such a rush? Alaina, Madeira, show our new friend where her quarters will be.” he addressed two asari standing by his side, which Shepard had not even noticed in her fascination with the elcor. 

They moved soundlessly to her side and took her away to shower and sleep. She looked back at Geko, Cass and Jay as they were receiving their payment. She wanted to scream. 

“I’m amazed at Kalo, you look nothing like an asari!” Alaina quipped as they sat around the small dinner table, eating something that Shepard could only describe as watered-down oatmeal and drinking a brew which was much too sweet for her tastes.

“Really? The face, the body proportions, they seem to me like they match.” Madeira replied, then turned to Shepard. “What do you think, Shepard? Do you think we look alike?”

“If you were green, I’d have thought you were some nerd’s idea of an alien space babe that looked distinctively human.” she smiled and put down the triangular spoon. 

She looked at Madeira and Alaina eating, never quite touching the bottom of the bowl, scooping up the gray mixture with the tiny shovel and bringing it to their mouths, tipping the spoon so it released its contents delicately. She picked up the instrument again and scraped the bowl, plunging the shovel into her mouth and chewing loudly, much to both asari’s distaste.

“Alien space babe, ey? You’re going to break some hearts yourself, Shepard. An entirely new species - does everyone look like you?” Madeira continued her interrogation, undaunted by Alaina’s restrained coolness. 

“No, not really. I mean, we all have a head, two bodies and two arms, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“Are you mono-gendered or bi-gendered?” 

“Mono-gendered? Why...what do asari males look like?” she looked at Alaina and Madeira in turn, trying to imagine how a male asari would look. 

“We don’t have genders, Shepard.”

“I don’t think I even want to know how that works.”   
***  
“Shepard, Shepard are you awake?” Madeira’s voice jolted her from sleep. 

Her face was pressed to the mattress on the top bunk, which Shepard had been assigned to sleep in.

“I am now.” 

“Oh, sorry for waking you. How are you feeling?”

“How do you think I’m feeling?” 

“Right, I’m sorry, silly question. I always ask the stupidest questions. Kalo told us they used you for testing and some other bad things. This must feel like a different kind of torture, though. I’m so sorry you’re going through this.” 

“Thanks, Madeira.” 

“Call me Mada, everyone calls me that. Well, except Alaina, but she’s bossy. Where do you come from? You probably don’t want to answer that. Do you have family?” 

“I do...a little girl. She’s waiting for me.” 

“I get that. I had a kid once, I wish I knew where she was.” 

“Did she get taken from you?” 

“I was an entertainment slave on Khar’shan before Kalo bought me, but he couldn’t buy my child, too. The master didn’t allow it. My daughter would be 100 by now…” she sighed and brushed her fingers on the mattress. 

“My kid is almost three years old. I left her with my sister-in-law back on Ea...back home. I know how you feel.”

“They send parents with young children to war in your homeworld?” she whispered, shocked. “When we’re matrons, we settle down and give up the military until our child is ready to face the world alone.” 

“I hope you find your kid again, Madeira.” 

“I hope so too, Shepard. For both of us.”

***   
“No, no, no, Shepard. You walk as if you’re a batarian just now touching solid ground. Again.” 

 

The light fixture in the dressing room flickered rhythmically, on and off and on and off with a maddening buzz that felt like stereo tinnitus. It was hard to contain the room in one glance: mirrors on each side illuminated the piles of clothes on the floor, vials of perfume or perhaps cosmetic products on the counter of each table, lockers bursting out with strange equipment for which Shepard had no name. Madeira and Alaina, her constant companions, teachers and guards for the past fortnight, were mildly frustrated. 

“I told him we should get a quarian for this job. I’ve been trying my best, and it’s not quite coming together. Every time I pick up one of the strands to pin, the others just...it’s a structural integrity issue.” Madeira sighed and put down the hair brush, looking balefully at Shepard’s hair. 

“Don’t complain, I’m the one who has been trying quarian makeup on myself for the past two weeks!” Alaina added. “I forgot to take it off one day and Kani Ton laughed me out of her shop. So embarrassing.” 

“Trust me, whatever you come up with is going to be miles ahead of what I would do.” Shepard snickered. 

“Damn pyjacks must have escaped again! I can’t find the ornamental headdress. It’s a disgusting manger in here!” Madeira sneered as she dug both of her hands in and threw the entire contents of a locker on the floor, all sequins and wispy fabrics tumbling down. “Wait here, I’m going to go find the guard responsible for this and bite his head off.” 

She stormed out without waiting for an answer. 

“Alaina, would you mind doing me a favor?” Shepard raised her eyes towards the asari and took her hand away from her face. “Can you please bring me a glass of water? The guard won’t allow me to go alone.” 

“I don’t know, Shepard...the instructions were that we are to be by your side at all times.” she shifted her feet, but did not take her hand out of Shepard’s. 

“Please? I’m thirsty.”

“Hmm...water, eh? Let’s get you some asary honey mead, I’m sure we both look like we need it. Too bad we don’t have any elasa. I keep telling Hapa to get us a good bartender in this crappy joint.” 

“I think I hear Mada coming back, maybe you should get some for her, too?” 

Alaina nodded and opened the door that took her through the backstage corridors and straight to the bar. Shepard waited until the door mechanism closed and carefully slid a drawer out, probing for the hidden compartment underneath the false bottom. She pushed the gun she’d stolen from one of the guards out of her way and picked up the omnitool. She couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of the drawer, overflowing with a delicate, silk-like cloth, stained with gun oil in places. She’d had to use an entire costume to insulate the drawer and avoid the contents rattling if someone checked it. 

“Poros, can you hear me?” 

“Shepard, you’re still alive!” 

“No time for explanations. I’m on Munihilex. Damn, I don’t know if the name is the same in your language, but you probably understand. I’m trapped at the Arkadia club, I’m supposed to put on a show for the patrons tonight. Hapa Kalo bought me out.” 

“You are the pink asari? I should have known!” he exhaled sharply and ground his teeth. 

“Can you extract me from here?” 

“Not a chance. Aria T’loak will have all of our heads if we dare interfere in a civilian operation unprovoked. I can probably infiltrate the guards, but it’s going to take a while.” 

“No time. I’ll bust myself out. I have an idea.” she whispered into what she thought was the microphone. “If it goes well, where can I find you?” 

“Do you know how to get to the Kima district? I’ll send you the nav details now, keep your omnitool open and accept the destination when it requests access.”

“Hurry up, someone’s coming.” 

She downloaded the package and put the omnitool away, just as Madeira entered the room in a huff. 

“Bielossaia thaise mereke!” she cursed, stopped and looked at Shepard, scanning the room with vulture eyes. “Where is Alaina? Why are you alone?” 

“Getting some alcohol for all of us. The guard wouldn’t allow both of us out. Mada, can I make a suggestion for tonight’s show?” 

Madeira perked up, a hint of suspicion still lingering on the corner of her downturned mouth. 

***  
The club floor was loud and raucous far too early. It was not yet even midnight, but simple concepts like night and day didn’t seem to have much effect on the citizens of Omega. With no skyline to speak of and very few clocks, they moved along secret rhythms, deciding as a group or even as individuals at which point they should sleep or which hours were the most dangerous for traversing the station alone. The emcee for the night was a short, tubby creature encased within an exosuit, punctuating every three words with a sharp hiss as he inhaled. Nonetheless, the crowd of mixed aliens responded positively to his almost simultaneous multilingual jokes. Shepard couldn’t follow him, she had rocks in place of intestines. There were too many people out there, their voices grating, their eyes probing, their hungry mouths waiting to devour her whole and consume her as a novelty. Her whole life, dreams and suffering reduced to an objectifiable sexy space babe. At least she wasn’t green. 

What if I have another psychotic break? They’ll kill me. I’ve gone too far to turn back now. If I lose it, there’s no telling what will happen to humanity. Focus. 

She heard the music get louder and she could even see, through the peephole, that the dancers on stage were approaching her box. The fireworks set off, the stage suddenly brightened and the doors opened out to blinding spotlights shining directly in her eyes. She took a step forward and noticed with the corner of her eye that her image was projected on two big monitors to the side of the stage. She could barely breathe, the knot in her throat was tightening as her vision was blurring.

The gasp was audible. Then began a slow buzzing hum of confused voices and jostling bodies crowding into eachother. It was working. 

Shepard moved towards the catwalk. She had to be careful with her steps in the floor length auburn red dress, lest she trip all over herself and ruin the effect. The blue bodypaint had started seeping into the fabric in places. The mask was failing her. The music boomed on, climbing higher, clamoring for everyone’s attention just as she positioned herself at the joining lip of the stage and catwalk. The music stopped. Then the stream of water started, pricking Shepard’s skin and washing away the blue body paint. 

With what she hoped was a fluid motion, she removed the prosthetic head tentacles and dress, straightening her spine so that her muscular shoulders were visible in the nude leotard. Her hair tumbled down to the middle of her back and she stroked it before bouncing it back and forth and bringing it to her face. She was pushing bile back down to her stomach with each hand wave. The crowd gasped and stilled its movements as if the wave had crashed on the ridge and was now stabilising itself. The effect stunned her and it took all her strength to walk lithely - just as they’d rehearsed - to the end of the footway with her feet bare. She could barely make out some faces, a mixed crowd of all stripes and walks of life, from turians to asari and even, if she identified them correctly, a few krogans. The rest of the details of the club were too hard for her to make out. She prayed that she would not see familiar faces in the crowd, begging her to save them.

The emcee spoke just as she turned around, heralding her as a new species from “far away”, an exotic new specimen worthy of a superstar introduction. It felt to Shepard more like describing a prize bull at a rodeo, for all the antique flavor that this gaudy show brought to her bitter lips. 

“Let her talk! We want to hear her!” a voice yelled to be heard above the soft music that had started playing. Soon others joined in. 

“Yeah, she looks too much like an asari! This must be a trick!” a deep, gravelly voice added. 

“No trick, my fellows! Notice her luxurious hair follicles, the shape of her head, there is no way our asari ladies, while still the loveliest in the universe, would ever be able to pull that off. She is no quarian and no asari, but the perfect mixture of assets of both species. Long thought to be a genetic experiment, we present her to you this evening as a one-of-a-kind, a bespoke gift from our friend and generous patron, Hapa Kalo. ”

The walkway elongated before her eyes, narrowing and prolonging its length until she could not make out the stage anymore. Cold sweat ran down her back, drenching the skimpy outfit she was wearing. There were no more voices, just a jumble of sights and sounds. Shepard focused her eyes and forced herself to walk, evening out her breathing in increments. As she calmed down, the image in front of her refocused and she could see her exit. 

If isolation on Saturn didn’t break me, neither will this. She smiled one last time and pulled the curtain aside, walking right into Madeira and Alaina. 

“Good job, looks like we have some galactic competition.” one of them said, Shepard was unsure who.

“I need to change, the next act.” 

“We’ll help you.” 

“No, it’s too many people. I’m not feeling very well. Um, humans don’t do too well in open spaces.”

She didn’t have to fake her feebleness, it was all too real. Shepard sidestepped both of them and dove straight into the dressing room, locking the door behind her. It was mercifully empty. She threw the drawer out, took the gun and the omnitool and put them on the table. With clumsy hands, she switched her language pack to asari. It wouldn’t fool asari, who are used to their various languages and dialects heard without the two second delay to translate, but it would still allow her to fly under the radar for most other species. 

“Ten minutes.” the guard outside knocked gently on the door.

“On it.” she responded.

She opened the locker with civilian clothes and took out a pair of pants, a shirt and an odd-fitting vest belonging to one of the asari performers on the stage. She’d watched her for the past two weeks and noted that they were of a similar size. Next, she took the airbrush that was used for the show and covered her exposed skin. It took longer than planned. 

“Is everything alright in there? Two minutes to cue.” the guard chimed in.

Shepard took one last look at herself in the mirror and smiled. She took the gun, relishing in the familiar weight as her hands clasped one on top of the other. She expanded the muzzle, as she’d seen the guards doing and took a deep breath.

She shot the guard outside through the back of his skull when he turned around to say something to her. She couldn’t risk it. As he fell forward, she was surprised at feeling nothing at all. Shepard leaned over, unclipped the turian’s holster belt and swung it over her waist. She’d lost enough weight by this point that the fit was not a problem. She’d worry about that later. She ran in the opposite direction, past some members of the backstage crew, screaming as hard as she could.

“Run, there’s a turian gunman in the building! He’s shooting everyone in sight. He’s here for the human.” she yelled, all the while bolting past stagehands, staff and crew. 

“Wait! Stop right there.” A batarian guard stopped her, grabbing her by the arm. He looked at his hand, smeared in blue and gasped. “You’re bleeding.” 

Shepard took the gun out of its belt, pivoted on her leg and positioned it beneath the first set of eyes, discharging two rounds in quick succession. 

She supported him as he went limp. 

Shepard took the second door on the right, down a flight of stairs, up another one and straight through the kitchen, shooting through two more guards before she burst out, free in the Omega dusk. Behind her she could hear the confusion rising, voices mixing together in a jumble of panic. In front of her, hundreds of grimy lights and billboards were screaming for her attention, covering up dusty, rusted-over buildings. The club was being evacuated, hundreds of people forming disorderly throngs of arms and legs and heads grappling for purchase, running all over eachother in their haste to escape. She joined them, supporting a turian female who had almost fainted after being struck in the chest. It was no longer a crowd of people, it was a mob storming the exits, pounding the asphalt in broken cadence. Shepard passed the turian woman to another turian and booked it as soon as she saw a diverging alley. 

She leaned on a building wall, opened the omnitool and studied the map. It would take her half a day at least of walking if she read the directions right. With no money and no identity, the railcar was off limits. Hapa Kalo would probably have guards at each station, sniffing out for her. 

“Myertash butchery. Kima district, area 2-14, Güzelcehisar street.” she repeated to herself, memorizing the words. “Damn it!” she brought her hand to her forehead but stopped just as she had intended to rub it. 

She pushed on her right foot and sat upright. The omnitool was connecting, connecting, connecting. No one on the other end. Then there was someone. 

“Poros? I’m out.” 

“Praised enkindlers, are you safe? You caused quite a stir if the news is to be believed.” 

“Not for long. I need to move. Got any safer routes than this?”

“I would have led you through the sewers, but the Blood Pack are patrolling the length and breadth after the Blue Suns used it to execute some gang murders. Can you make it to Gozu district? I can have someone pick you up near the Auxera sports center.” 

“Listen, I’m wearing a disguise, but it’s not going to be very convincing if someone will look closely. Can’t you bring someone closer to where I am?” 

“Sorry, Shepard, but there have been recent developments that left me with very few resources. You’re strong, you’ll make it on your own. Do you have a weapon?” 

“Strong my ass, I’m a hair split away from...nevermind. I have a weapon.” 

“Good, I’ve sent you a datalink to a hidden cache of weapons and armors that we use. I think there’s still an asari armor there, it’s unclaimed.” there was sadness as he said that. “It’s a safehouse, completely hidden. You can spend the night there if you want, let the madness die down a bit.” 

“That suits me just fine. I don’t know how long I can use this omnitool, it didn’t come with a charger, so I’ll power off.”

“No, leave it on. It’s kinetic. Get a good night’s sleep, Shepard.” 

She closed the link and sighed. It would be at least 3 hours of walking before she got to the safehouse. Then a quick, upright nap so as not to ruin the paint job. She took to the streets, walking purposefully, as if she belonged. No one seemed to pay much mind to her. Most of the people of Omega had their own worries to contend with, walking face down, eyes on the broken asphalt of the streets and pedestrian walkways. A few motorcycles sped by and she winced, afraid they were coming for her. Each time she saw an elcor, she trembled. They went about their slow business, trudging along, some of them sparing a longing look at her ass. 

At an intersection, a krogan in a red and black armor stopped her to warn her of the curfew, suggesting that he may like to embrace a bit of eternity tonight if she needed to stay safe. Shepard blinked and told him that she was out of drugs, sidestepping him as the krogan began laughing. 

The road began to slope at some point, gradually at first, then noticeably. She was nearing the cut-off point for the Doru district, the heart of the station. The people on the streets and in the shops were beginning to change. There were more batarians, turians and even salarians from time to time. 

An advertisement yelled out to her: THE THOUSAND YEAR GRUDGE! Images started flickering of an asari in an impractical, bust-bearing armour, brandishing a rifle aimed at another asari dressed just as impractically. JUSTICAR! REMEMBER ME? The next shot was of two skycars racing, hitting eachother, scraping against buildings and crashing into terraces. MINI SARESSIA IS KAY MURD, A JUSTICAR WHO STRAYED FROM THE CODE. ADAZYA FERMI IS THE LONE SURVIVIOR OUT FOR BLOOD. 

Shepard forced herself to turn away, aware that she was the only person who had stopped to listen. Jay was right, they had movies! And they looked so familiar, down to the ear-splitting narrator hawking the primadonna like a piece of meat. This world...she’d stumbled into it half-drunk, like a blind insect attracted to sugarwater and amazed that there were more insects just like her and not like her, a billion billion critters of a different kind, but with the same goals, the same drive, the same hunger overriding their brains and driving them forward. 

As she rounded a corner an immense sprawl of stalls and tents greeted her, a veritable shantytown of junk thrown together to approximate living conditions. The sign above called this place the Umut immigration camp. It was the only thing standing straight amidst the rubble of reclaimed wood, steel and cloth. Shepard stopped herself from gawking, suddenly aware that the cleanliness of her clothes marked her out from the crowd. 

“Lady, lady, can you make the blue sparkles fly!?” a batarian child sprouted from nowhere, surprising Shepard. The little wretch, pale with a reddish tint around his mouth, tugged at her pants with a gleaming smile. “Just once? For me? Please?” 

He was pulling too tight for Shepard to escape. Her pink skin was visible below the pant’s waist. 

“Hey kid, let go of me.” she tried grabbing his hand kindly and pushing it away.

“Anto Korragan, you get back here right this instant or I will flog you!” a shrill voice detached itself from the women cooking on the open stoves. She wiped her dirty hands on the apron tied to a bulging waistline and the child knew she meant business.

“Aunty Ilot, I’m sorry. I just wanted to see the lights.” 

“Come here!” the woman growled and he did. She pinched him hard by the furrow of his mouth and he started howling, crying from all four of his eyes. 

“Miss Ilot, it’s alright, he was not bothering me.” Shepard tried soothing the angry woman, to no avail.

“The hell he wasn’t! You look like a nice one, but one of these days he’s going to run up to the wrong person and get a bullet in his face. Would serve him right, the little ayip! Maybe that way he will have something between his ears.” she let go of his cheek, slapping him over the head as a finishing touch. “What have you got to say? Were you stealing? Tell me!” 

“No, auntie, I promise! Tell her, miss, please.” Anto whined and looked up to Shepard with pleading eyes. Despite the alienness of him, Shepard felt sorrow for this curious mind. 

A small crowd had gathered and she wanted to be on her way. She rummaged through her pockets and found a marble ball inside her vest, beautiful in translucent blue, with a small cloud of indigo in the center. 

“I can’t show you the sparkles here, but I can show you something pretty.” she smiled and beckoned the child closer. Anto was no longer sure if he should approach. 

“Miss, you can’t give him that, it’s a lot of money!” Auntie Ilot chimed in, a worried frown crossing her forehead. “What will your mate say?” 

Shepard hid her puzzlement by bowing her head towards the child. She knew she had to answer in some fashion. 

“I no longer have a mate. He died.” she said. 

The truth is sometimes the best lie. Aunty Ilot seemed struck by this, her features softened into a knowing sadness. She must have lost someone dear herself, or was preparing to lose them. 

“What’s your name, dear? We don’t get that much kindness around here. Certainly not for free. He’s not for sale, you know?” 

“Sh-Sial. My name is Sial. I don’t want to buy him. I have a child of my own and I haven’t seen her in so long. Different star system. Anto, come here, it’s alright. You’re a lucky boy to have such a good person watching out for you.” 

Anto hesitated, looking to his auntie for permission. Gone was the brash boldness of before. Shepard well remembered her own mischiefs and smiled. There were so many universal things in the galaxy, so much resemblance that it was hard to imagine how she could have thought that humans were unique. 

He approached cautiously, said a very formal thank you that her translator could barely pick up and then darted underneath his aunt’s apron.

“You going up to Doru? The blast doors are sealed for the night, there’s no way to pass at this hour. The mercs are on high alert looking for some fugitive, so everything’s under lockdown.”

“I know, the street monitors were blaring it out. I’m going to have to find a way, I have a friend there who’s sick.” 

“Stay here for a while, have yourself some grub and I can get someone to help you. It’s the least I can do for you.” she said and swatted at Anto, who peeked his head to squeal. 

“I don’t want to impose, but thank you for the offer.” 

“Nonsense, let you go of that asari proudness and come eat with us. We were a good caste before...we are good people.” she swallowed hard and hid her misery behind a smile. 

“Can this person get me to Doru tonight?” 

“Melegem, for the price you paid, he can get you to any district you like.” 

Anto bolted out of his hiding and took her by the hand, already leading her deep into the tent area. 

“Now don’t you go talking her auditory glands off, you hear that, Anto? Get her straight to our tent and tell your no good cousin he has a job tonight. I got to get back to the stoves or else Ilsa will put my food aside to get cold and congeal again, that rotten bitch. Food will be ready in half hour at most.” Aunt Ilot said in the way of polite farewells. “And get her some of the good brew, you hear? None of that we drink ourselves!” 

Anto led her away, chirping in that pleasant voice that all children have when excited. Her translator didn’t get all of the words and she was too distracted by her surroundings to even listen to all of what he said. People were staring at her and not in a necessarily friendly way. Anto said hi to some people and shied away from others. 

“Who’s your friend, Anto? Is she available?” 

“She’s my mate, you know! Back off, Servus!” he hissed at a fully grown turian, his needle point teeth bared. 

“Is there a problem?” Shepard reached for her pistol and the turian backed off, smiling lecherously as they passed. 

The tents were so much alike that Shepard had lost count when Anto stopped, pulled over a tarpaulin and invited her in. She peered in, but it was hard to make out the details in the shoddy light from the singular lamp inside. The interior was plastered with multicolored shawls draped over the tent poles, creating an artificial sense of privacy by separating the room. In the middle was a low, flat table with pillows strewn around it, bordered by thin mattresses covered with ratty bedquilts. It was the most color Shepard has seen in quite a while. Anto dashed ahead, kicking a lump that was covered in one of the blankets. 

“Sish, wake up! We have a visitor and Auntie Ilot said you have a job tonight and food is ready soon and we don’t have water for the brew and you have to wake up!!” he squealed and was rewarded with a groan. 

“Shut up, runt!” the lump answered and began to unfurl himself, slowly, lazily. “What are you yammering about? Who in their right minds would visit...oh.” he shut his trap as he caught sight of Shepard at the tent flap. “Who are you?” 

“Siaal. Miss Ilot said you could help me get to Doru tonight.”

“Come in, close the shutter. You’re not from around here, are you?” 

The lump threw the duvet off of him and revealed himself to be a fully grown batarian. The same pale forehead and cheeks as Anto’s turned to her, with a more muted, dusty red coloring around his mouth. His eyes were peering intently at Shepard, then looking away when he realised he was staring. 

“No, I’m not. But I’m not some naive tourist, either.” she replied. Shepard stepped into the gloom inside, bowing so her head wouldn’t hit the tent pole. 

“About as naive as you get, talking about breaching station curfew out in the open. Anto, go get some water.” he growled at the little one, who took a bucket from the table and skittered out. “Why do you want to get to Doru, anyway? Nothing to see there but some leaky pipes.” 

“I have a friend who’s very sick. I need to get to Doru as fast as possible.” 

“A sick friend, eh? Let’s pretend I debarked yesterday, where would this sick friend be living?” he sneered and moved a hand to scratch the back of his head. 

“Look, I don’t want to debate this. I need someone who can show me how to get into Doru. The rest I’ll handle on my own.” 

“On your own? It’s swarming with guards out there, you won’t get far enough before they gun you down. Or, looking at you, worse.” 

“I’ll take that risk.” 

“Suit yourself, I’ll only take you as far as the border ring. We leave an hour after dinner. The guards will be changing shift by then.” he punctuated that sentence with a loud yawn that bunched his wrinkled face up. 

Before long, Ilot returned with the food, which consisted of bits of brown meat seared in a yellowish sauce and fat caps of what resembled mushrooms. Shepard’s mouth watered, but she ate sparingly and prayed that she would not get sick. Ilot interpreted this as politeness, so she heaped her plate again and again until Shepard had to refuse. Whatever it was, it was delicious and she could not stop herself. She hadn’t really tasted the food she was served in the past months. It felt like her tastebuds had disappeared, only to return in full force as she sopped the yellow sauce with a cap she kept aside specifically for this purpose. They ate with their hands, licking the fat from their fingers. 

Once dinner was over Anto shoved a chipped bowl in her face and motioned for her to drink the murky maroon beverage. 

“It’s the good one, I made sure Sish put two handful of leaves in.” he smiled and poked her mouth with the rim of the bowl, almost spilling the drink on her face. 

“Anto, manners.” was all Auntie Ilot had to say for him to cup the bowl with both hands and raise it towards Shepard in a stiff pose. “Much better. You might not like it, it’s nothing compared to asari sweetleaf.” 

It tasted like brewed green coffee beans and Shepard had to stop herself from gulping it down in one go. She’d been careful with her eating so as not to smear her body paint. The smell was wrong, the consistency was watery but there it was, the taste of good coffee, the kind you could only get from a specialty shop back on Earth. The swill they gave to explorers did not deserve that illustrious name.

“Thank you for your hospitality, it’s delicious. Bitter. Reminds me of something I drank back home.” 

“You’re an odd one, for an asari. There’s something about your face that is...not quite there.” Sish looked up at her from his own bowl, evidently enjoying the rare treat. “Oh well, none of our business. Are you ready?” he took one last swig and then licked the dregs from the bowl, chewing on them with a wistful crunch of his teeth. Auntie Ilot slapped the bowl out of his hands, adding another chip where previously there was none. 

“You watch your gullet, have you forgotten your manners? I raised you better than that - and in front of guests! Now I can’t reuse them!” she growled and narrowed both pair of eyes. 

“What’s the point, anneko? We’re no longer on Khar’Shan. You’re not serving snapping eel to some trophy wife of a wealthy merchant anymore. We’re here and we’re here to stay. And I’ll tell you what the others in Umut think about manners and where we can stick th-” he was stopped by a slap full on the face. Ilot’s face was a burning brand illuminating the darkest corners of the tent in the colors of a wildfire. 

Shepard thought they would fight, claw eachother’s eyes out and trap her in. She couldn’t be caught in the middle and risk discovery if the racket got too loud. Sish bowed his head low and apologised first to Ilot, kissing his mother’s hand. He then turned to Shepard, closed his eyes and repeated the bow, which Shepard did not know how to return. He didn’t seem to expect an asari, even a strange one, to know batarian traditions. Were they the outcasts of the universe? Why? 

They set out as soon as Sish got dressed, traversing the deserted shantytown streets unmolested. It was a bit much to call them streets, they consisted of whatever walking space was available between pegs and tent poles, people rejoicing around a fire or passed out drunk near the awning. Some people only had improvised bivouacs they used to claim any available living space, while others carted a sleeping bag around as their sole wealth. 

 

They didn’t say a word as they walked. Most of the tents had at least a meagre light in them, illuminating various silhouettes as they went about their night, most talking, others laughing, some copulating with muted sighs. Sish took a turn out of the tent rows and into an alley, motioning for her to come closer. He went right up to a stack of crates, moved one out of the way and opened a sewer entrance. 

“The sewers?” Shepard looked at Sish. “Isn’t it going to be patrolled?” 

“Not if you know which ways to take.” he smiled and passed her his knapsack before grabbing a railing and descending into the darkness. Shepard threw him the bag and then went down herself. “You know about the patrols, but not about the penalty for breaking curfew. You walk around like you were born with that gun on your hip. Yet you gave a dirty immigrant wretch a rare Thessian crystal, worth at least a year’s pay, without any thought. If I didn’t know any better, I’d ask what your story is.”

“I’d tell it if I knew it myself. I’m still in the middle of it.” Shepard let go of the ladder with reluctance, plunging into knee high filth.

“I’d like to hear it one day, when we’re both out of this dump. Whatever’s got you on the move, it looks serious.. Right. From this point on, keep quiet, keep close.” he whispered and cracked open a glowstick.

“Why not use your omnitool?” 

“Do you think those things are cheap? I’ve been saving for two years to get one and I’ll be saving for two more before I can afford the crappiest model.” 

Shepard followed quietly after that, mirroring Sish’s steps throughout the maze. The smell of the flowing river of refuse made her want to vomit. Her eyes watered as she kept it in, dejected at the memory of how good the food tasted. Soon they had to duck and continue with bent knees. Shepard unbuckled the holster and held the gun close to her chest. Sish stopped below a manhole and pointed up. 

“There’s the exit, it will take you behind a fish market. From there, you’ll have to figure it out yourself. Free piece of advice: there will be less guards on top of the buildings than on the streets. You don’t want to get in the crosshairs of some rookie sniper wanting to prove himself to the others.” 

She thanked him and scrambled up the ladder, looking back before she opened the top. 

“Take care of your family. Anto, he... he’s a good kid.” 

“That little runt will die before me, he’s that stupid.” he coughed and waved goodbye, turning his back and retracing his steps. 

Shepard opened the manhole and peeked outside towards the empty street. She hoisted herself up and checked the gun for wetness. It was dry. She heard the crackle of a radio coming to life and ducked by the drainpipe. 

“All clear on my post, Krull. You?” the turian replied to the radio hail. 

“Boring as betting on virtual varrens. Do you think they’ll execute the sodder who tried to poison the waterworks?” the other continued, broken by static. 

Shepard rounded the corner into the back alley and away from the voices, finding a fence that would allow her access to the roof. 

“You know we’re not supposed to chit chat through the comms. But yeah, I bet they’ll make him eat his own poison and watch him squirm. Got two hundred credits riding on that.” 

“I say they present him to Aria and she’ll order a public execution. Gotta make an example out of that freak. He’d’have murdered the whole station! Or at least the ones poor enough to drink the water here.” 

She grabbed the drainpipe on the edge of the roof and cringed as it creaked, whining under her weight. Shepard pulled herself up and hid behind what looked like a generator. The turian sniper was perched, flat on his stomach with his rifle extended and pointed to the street. 

“What was that?” the turian swerved his head around, narrowly missing her as she huddled closer to the whirring mechanical parts. 

“Better go check that out. I’ll be back soon.” 

“You’re too jumpy. If I checked every damn rigamor noise, I’d be up all night. Call if you need backup, I heard those rodents are disgusting to turian sensibilities.” Krull laughed heartily, booming through the radio. 

“I hope you die with your tongue stuck in a salarian’s cloaca, cruddy asshole. Jumpy, he says.” he got up and unholstered a pistol from his back. 

Shepard stilled her breathing. She clutched onto the pistol with both hands, but extending it now would certainly mean that he’d hear it. Her eyes darted about for a way to escape. She was trapped behind precarious cover. If she moved, the turian would again hear her and find a sitting duck. Useless. She shifted her weight and found some pebbles beneath her. She grabbed them and threw them off to the side of the building, where they hit the street with a shower of noise. 

“Intruder, halt! Get out where I can see you.” 

The turian pivoted on his heels and changed course, allowing her to sneak up and slam the full weight of the pistol down on his neck. He went down with a feeble thud, the ceramic plates on his blue armor scraping together. 

“Tobias, intruders in sector 4-7, move your nest. Command detects six heat signatures. Must be some wretches looking to score some clean water.” the radio clicked, but Tobias was sleeping and couldn’t answer. 

Shepard walked along the rooftops of houses and shops huddled together haphazardly and, when she couldn’t anymore, she hugged the shop fronts and ducked beneath stalls, crawling between expired produce and rats the size of her forearm. They weren’t exactly rats. Their long, slanted snouts sniffed continually, looking for edibles they could break down with their grubby paws and inhale. 

She was close now. The navpoint on her map got bigger and bigger. It brought with it the promise of a soft bed, guns and armor. Most of all, it tempted her with solitude, the absence of niggling ghosts and demons raking her innards and heating her brain for dinner. To be alone again, even if for a few hours. Her mouth watered as if she were seeing an orchard full of apples. 

“I’m telling you, I spoke to the cloaca minutes ago.” a krogan was leaning on a streetlamp, his shoulders set defiantly.

“If H456/17 is not here, he deserted. You know the rules.” a batarian answered, proud and prickly.

They were both wearing the same blue armor with what looked like a sunburst on their shoulder. They clutched their headgear in their hands as if they were transporting a briefcase. Easy. Natural. The multitude of armors, insignia, factions and groups on Omega were confusing, each one fighting for or against one another in some way. There was only one logo on almost all sectors, near shopfronts, on banners splayed across decaying buildings and on terminals across the streets. It looked like the letter Q flattened against a black background, a mark of ownership most likely belonging to a central government or a dictator. 

Shepard couldn’t go on. It was another blind alley and they were standing right near what should be the entrance. With no way to climb the multistory building and no place to hide, Shepard waited, glued to the wall in a shadow. 

“It’s the damn immigrants in Carrd district. The commander told Aria they would be nuisances, but does she listen? No. We’re crawling with intruders on a thin roster, creeping up behind our backs the second we turn a corner. Aaargh I could just about punch someone right now.” Krull said, yet his fist stay bunched by his side nonetheless.

“There were only ten tonight. And one of them was a kid. Slim pickings for target practice, I say.” the batarian chortled and paused. “I’d watch that mouth of yours, Krull. Those who dislike Aria have a way of finding permanent employment in the mines.”

Shepard prayed the child was not Anto. It would be too much to bear, to have this indifferent machine grind him down and suck the lifemarrow out of him. Shepard knew now what it meant to have no choice, to be forced to act out your part as best you could, on a stage where the floor was full of gaping holes, the props were dusty and the lights were giving out. You did what you had to to survive. Even if that meant children were dying because of you? Or planets were incinerated because you took the wrong joyride on a mission? What should be the proper emotional response to being a prisoner and a test subject? Shepard didn’t know the answers to any of these. What she did know was the unadulterated need to survive. She should focus on finding a way out of this mess, of clawing and scraping herself out of this corner. 

It was getting cold. The station didn’t have enough energy to maintain heat during the night, or it kept this particular district colder than the rest. You could hear the tyrannical gears and pistons, cogs and motors of nearby factories churning, scraping and buzzing. Were there people in these factories? 

The krogan and the batarian showed no signs of moving anytime soon. The krogan was a sight to behold, taller than the batarian by a head and a half, with a squat, flat head. The plates on his forehead distracted from the hump on his back, which didn’t seem to interfere with the krogan’s movement. If anything, his gestures were sprightly, agile beyond what his body should have been capable of. 

Shepard couldn’t stay here longer. She began circling the building, moving from shadow to shadow whenever she could, from news terminal to corners and alcoves. Another alley greeted her on the other side of the building, this time bordered by naked concrete walls that echoed her steps back to her. She slowed her pace, supporting her weight mostly on the balls of her feet. If there were snipers on the other end of the street, they did not notice her. 

“Krull, I’ve radioed command and there really is no sign of Tobias. But there wasn’t an intruder detected either. So either he fell asleep or he defected.” the batarian slapped Krull on the shoulder and urged him on. Krull was having none of that. Shepard froze in place.

“He said he heard a noise and was going to check it out. What if there’s an infiltrator around who happened to have activated their cloak? At least we should take a look. My sector’s covered anyway.” 

“Never would have guessed you’d stick your hump in for a turian. Brothers in arms, eh? Fine, go have your stroll. But if it turns out the bird is sleeping off some ryncol, it’s coming out of both your paychecks.” 

Krull stomped off in the opposite direction and the batarian moved on, blissfully unaware of Shepard sweating behind a dumpster. 

There was a bitter taste in her mouth, rising to the roof of her mouth and slithering its tentacles to the back of her throat. Her body no longer felt like hers. There was something else coursing through her veins, replacing the humanity which had curdled and gone sour. When had the haze appeared in front of her eyes?

She got up and trailed the batarian. He was walking slowly, yet his mind was somewhere else. The omnitool in his hand pinged periodically. _He...he’s playing a game! Is that what he does after hunting people? Play a game as if it were some lazy Sunday morning sitting on the toilet?!_. Shepard snuck up to his back, took his head in her arms, bracing for the jolt. The batarian tried to turn around and extricate himself. Too late. With a sickening crunch, Shepard snapped his neck and watched him go down. 

The mist started to clear away and she saw what she had done. The batarian’s head lolled listlessly to the side, looking straight towards an advertisement for prostitutes. Terror coiled around the fury she felt just seconds ago, snuffing the flame with icy pins. She steadied her breathing and turned him around. 

He was heavy and his mag boots caught along each fault and hole in the asphalt. She’d lost so much conditioning in these months. Three? Four? She had trouble remembering Earth time by this point. From time to time, she stopped for a second and listened for footsteps, only they were echo of hers and his body being dragged away. Where Carrd had been a noisy pit of sweltering bodies, Doru was an abandoned ghost town at night. Shepard left him by the dumpster and covered him in garbage and cardboard, a fitting end for such a person. She took his weapon away, a shotgun by the looks of it and rifled through his pockets. A credit chit, unmarked, some pills and calling card for someone named Daxa. She left the pills and card inside his pockets. 

Shepard retraced her steps, dragging her feet against their will. This time no one else guarded the entrance and she found a door by another dumpster. It was an inoffensive, manually operated metal door with a gray sheen where people had used its knob. She keyed in the access code and stepped in, relishing the feeling of turning the lever herself. 

It was damp and musty inside. A ray of orange light shone in through the blocked windows, illuminating the dust specks that danced on the bunk beds. At least it was warm. Shepard closed the door and fumbled around for a light switch. As she paced, the light suddenly came on. 

“Automatic, of course.” 

Her omnitool began beeping. 

“You made it. Are you alright? I was afraid you were...how did you get into Doru?” 

“I’m fine. I found someone to help me get in.” 

“We can hear the radio chatter about intruders. There were more tonight than usual. Do you know anything about that?” 

“No, I was guided here by a batarian. Sish. He knew the way.” 

“Sish Korrigan? That explains a good deal. There is so much you need to know and so little time. Sish is the lead scout for an important batarian mercenary group in Carrd, the Guzlums. How did you get him to help you? I have not been able to charter his services as a guide, regardless of the price.” 

“No man has the courage to refuse his mother.” Shepard laughed in earnest and plopped down on the bed. It was military issue. It felt like home.   
“Interesting perspective. There is nutrient paste in the kitchen if you’re hungry. I apologise for the lack of fresh food. You will also find a bathroom where you can wash off. The armor will hide your face and body, so you can drop the disguise for now.”

“Goodnight, Poros. Thank you.” 

She lay her back on the mattress and stretched like a sleepy cat. Her limbs were heavy, her eyelids were drooping. She took off the headgear and placed the latex tentacles to the side of the pillow, allowing her sweat-matted hair to breathe. It was oily and clung together in strands. With clumsy movements, she took off her pants and underwear and used her legs to kick them on the floor. The tshirt and vest departed in much the same way: she shimmied on the bed until they were above her breasts and then pulled the clothes over her head. 

Shepard stood for a moment in absolute silence, covering her eyes with her elbow. A minute later, she jolted herself out of bed and began looking for the shower. 

It was an odd, but serviceable contraption. Instead of a shower head, it had several smaller nozzles along the walls that sprayed water. The pressure released the knots in her muscles, giving way to a smooth ache that was familiar. In the mirror, a skinny frame with protruding bones looked back at Shepard, mirroring her every movement. 

When the last jet had cleaned the suds off, she got out and walked closer to the mirror. It was corrugated and dirty, throwing a deathly pallor on whomever was foolish enough to look. She grit her teeth and spat on the reflection.

Trusting Poros did not feel right. He spoke to you as if he were your father, a kind, warm figure to ward off the uncertainty and fear of being a prisoner in time of need. There was never talk of repayment or debt, only interest in your wellbeing and safety. For someone camped in this hellhole, it did not seem right. There must be a catch. And the catch could very well be that his leash was not made of steel or gold, it was made of your own hands suffocating yourself with his approval. 

_But what choice do I have?_ Shepard pondered, falling asleep. As she floated away, she could almost make out Garrus Vakarian’s face looking at her from the chasm of her schizophrenia, a sad and weary look on his face.


	21. When in Omega, do as omegans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ghost walks the streets of Munihilex. Aria catches wind of the Pink Asari. A misunderstanding leads to a hasty visit to the Afterlife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's baaack? I mean the character. But is it the character? Is it not? What is going on here?

“ETA 15 minutes to completion of docking protocol. Please disengage anterior thrusters.” 

Garrus Vakarian dutifully switched off the thrusters and suited up. He’d done a pretty terrible job of painting over his armor. There were splotches and paint clumps where he hadn’t had the patience to wait for it to dry before applying the second coat. When he had picked up the air spray cannister, it felt like an exchange had taken place, by which two disjointed parts of his being suddenly connected back together. Two gestures, two brushes. He painted his face back on, to remind himself of who he was and he painted his armor over so he could forget who he had been thus far. 

He did everything with determination, fearing that if he’d look back, if he’d waiver even an inch, the stars would swallow him and jettison the remains of his undigested being out into the void. While he worked, he sat his omnitool on the only table available in the cramped space - the workbench - and brought up three pictures: one of his family, one of Bell and Lil and one of Shepard, which he’d stolen from the official files. The lighting was too strong in that picture, making her nose invisible. Her face looked more turian that way. 

He used the pictures as others would use idols, something that had always seemed strange to Garrus before. Turian spirituality and religion was largely indifferent to the fates of each individual, so long as he was not part of a pack. Slowly, throughout the hours, he learned how to pray and how to ask the spirits to intercede on his behalf. He needed all the help he could get. 

Somewhere along the way, Garrus Vakarian realised there was no coming back from this. He’d forged documents, stolen C-sec property, falsified information and, worst of all, turned his back on his unit and moved out on his own. For the first time in his life, no one was telling him what to do, who to be and what his objectives were. He was terrified to the marrow of his bones. And all along, he was drawn to the human.

He thought back to their first meeting, only a few short months ago. They’d only spoken twice, once when she’d been his prisoner and the other when they'd spent the night huddled together around the fire, telling stories to stave off the darkness. Something broke that night and he had to find the human and know what it was. She lit the brazier and then left, spirited away by an invisible hand that was trying to crush them both.

The armor clamps clicked on his sniper rifle, the sound washing away the sludge of fear. He who has a weapon is a weapon. He brought the omnitool to his forehead and kept it there for a moment, praying for what felt like the last time. 

Munihilex was the stuff you scared your children with. To hear his dad, only criminals, outlaws, murderers and political agitators at every corner, waiting to ambush good citizens. Except there were no good citizens here, only tiers of filth that rolled one on top of the other. If you got caught in the avalanche, it was your own fault.

He walked on, ignoring the hagglers that tried to scam him at the port. Every muscle in his body was tensed, wound like coil around his bones. He had a map, water and dried rations for the next week. Whatever credits he’d had he used to pay for the ship. 

Garrus drew closer to a corner and pulled up the map. If he took the railway, he’d be in Carrd district within the hour. Munihilex was just as big as the Citadel and, despite its more compact form, or perhaps because of it, housed almost double the population. He closed the map and took a right turn. 

“Bellator Silva, please stop.” an asari moved closer to him, stepping in unison. There was no way to run away from her in the crowded street. “I want to have a friendly chat with you. My, my, the Vakarian tattoos suit you.” she giggled and motioned to a building wall directly facing a crowded terrace.

“Who are you?” 

She flashed a small badge that puzzled Garrus. Noticing his confusion, she drew closer and touched his forearm, right near the viata vein. Garrus’ training kicked in and he leaned in, despite his instinct.

“Aria sent me. She doesn’t see many notable C-Sec officers around here, and certainly not Spectre candidates who came back from the brink of death only to go missing in Citadel space.” 

“I came here as a private citizen. On vacation. I heard Munihilex has a lot to offer in terms of entertainment.” he said and made an obvious show of looking at her.

“Business first. Then, maybe later I can make you forget the world...” she licked her lips in a grotesque, obvious way. “You’re after the human, aren’t you?” 

“Human? What’s that?” he smiled, yet his hand hovered above the pistol strapped to his thigh. 

“Whatever you want with that savage is your problem. Aria wants her off the station. Quietly.” 

“Then why doesn’t she talk to the Asari Embassy on the Citadel? I’m off duty.” he opened his mandibles to allow air to flow into his parched throat. His collar was getting too warm in the dry heat.

“Your Citadel laws and rules don’t apply here, Silva. If that wasn’t clear already. I am prepared to give you the schematics to where the human is held, in exchange for a few conditions and a debt. And saying conditions is being unkind, really they're common sense.”

“Say I was here on business and definitely not having the conversation of my lifetime with a gorgeous, crazy and dangerous asari, what would those conditions be? I'm mostly interested in keeping you here for as long as possible, of course.” 

“Your reputation doesn't do you justice. You don’t touch Kalo, of course, and you take the human as far away from the Terminus as possible, alive or dead. Deal?”

“Those are fair conditions, it's being in debt to Aria that doesn't work for me.” He let his hand go limp and looked away from the asari. “She has a way of collecting at just the right time. I have nothing to offer her anymore.”

“I would consider her offer carefully. If you storm in and make a big noise of the human being here, Aria will have to act swiftly and publicly. She’s doing you a kindness. You understand, you're a pragmatic turian.”

“I’m done being a puppet for others. If Aria wants the human gone, she’ll have to wait for me to do it on my own terms.” he straightened up to his full height, towering above the asari. “And you can tell her I said so. I’m on Munihilex, I have no boss here.”

The asari smiled with the tip of her lips and measured him from head to toe.

“You’ve got some guts, kid. I like that. Spare Kalo and you’ll walk away alive, that is, if you make it out alive from his compound. And if you’re ever interested in more than pushing datapads around on the Citadel, come find me. We always find a good use for unusual people.”

He left her in the middle of the street, not looking back and took the railcar up to Carrd district, watching Munihilex unfurl before him. Garrus couldn’t see it properly in his haze. He dropped off at his station and went in search of Kalo’s nightclub. Munihilex was full of them; for each shop, market and office there were at least two casinos, bars, pubs, dayclubs and nightclubs. The populace seemed content with frittering away their day on petty crime and exorcising their demons at night, careening drunk off of the rim of whatever dancefloor welcomed them. 

Carrd was a clean, respectable district by Munihilex standards. The streets were patrolled by Blue Suns in groups of up to four at once, while street cleaners sweeped behind them, mopping up dirt or blood with the same impassivity. Most of the elcor and volus merchants made it their home away from home, bringing in contraband and legit merch that could not be bought in Citadel space. Garrus saw some gun mods in a shop window that couldn’t have been legal under the Farixen treaty. On a street sign, an advertisement for the Pink Asari show welcomed patrons to witness the show of a lifetime in club Arkadia, right across the street. He reached out to interact with it, but it showed the red line of a sold out show.

He waited for one of the Blue Suns to look away, then clambered up a service stairway onto a roof directly facing the club and set up his observation post. 

He adjusted his sniper rifle, perching it on all three legs and covering it with a blanket. His helmet’s magnification screen showed him everyone that went in or out of the club. At 2100, the bouncers came out, an elcor and a krogan. The krogan was probably there to provide the more diplomatic answer to patrons. Steadily, from 2200 onwards, people began to flow in, showing their ticket and being allowed or denied entrance. He waited. 

At 2300, the bouncers started turning people away. He took a swig of water and coughed. A rowdy crowd had formed around the building. The pickpockets were working their way around, taking advantage of the bustle. There had to be a way to enter the club, some ignored entrance that he could use. His feet were restless. He saw two other snipers perched on rooftops, scanning the surroundings. He was protected from their view by the corner of the building. There were probably at least a half dozen more hidden, they would not take note of another if they saw him. 

Aria thought he was Bellator Silva. Of course, Bellator Silva wearing Garrus Vakarian’s face on Munihilex made more sense than...than...think it. Allow yourself to think about it. Than a successful assassination attempt on Bellator Silva wearing Garrus Vakarian’s face on the Citadel. 

He collapsed his rifle and packed it away, hopping down from the roof. Garrus mingled with the crowd, only to slip away to the back of the club when he saw the bouncers were not looking. He tiptoed around some homeless people and circled around, maintaining a cautious distance. There were two sentinels guarding the back entrance. Their heads moved in unison, following him, exposing the bio amp clinging to their ears. He pretended to be drunk, staggering his way around the back alleys.

“Everyday a new chump, I swear. The muggers are getting fat off of them. Hey, you. Yes, you in the green armor. What the hell are you doing here?” the krogan sentinel threw the words at him.

“This is private property, scram.” the asari guard assumed a position that told Garrus she was going through the motions of her mnemonics, preparing to blast him at any moment.

“Are you the pink asari? You look blue to me, you know! And the ad sure made you look less heavy.” 

“Sister-fucker, load of garbage you are. Get the hell out of here!” she raised her voice and flung a warp projectile his way. 

Garrus dodged, leaping towards the asari. He unholstered his pistol and whipped the asari right below her cheekbone. The asari grabbed her face and yelped in pain, shrinking in size as she crumpled together. Garrus spun around to face the krogan in a typical C-Sec manoeuvre. Krogan biotics had more brute strength, but their bulk made it harder for them to perform split-second mnemonics. Asari, on the other hand, deceptively small as they were, could flatten an elcor even if they were not the best biotic soldier. 

But this krogan was something else. Garrus found that he couldn’t move, his whole body caught in a stasis field, directly facing the coldest sneer he’d ever had the displeasure of looking at. 

“Kwill hyum! Bwash hwis fayce een.” the asari spat purple blood on the sidewalk, along with two teeth.

“With pleasure.” the krogan grunted and popped the joints of his shoulder, letting the bloodrage seep through him.

He will die here. His hands were uselessly clinging to the pistol, his nerves tingling somewhere between cold and pain. It felt like time had stopped still as he watched the krogan pushing on his hind legs, bulling towards him with his head lowered. Stasis fields protect against most biotic and bullet attacks. Not, however, against a ton of rocks wrapped up in reptilian skin. If the impact didn’t kill him, the shotgun the krogan wielded would definitely finish the job. He tried to get his willful limbs to listen, move, move Spirits damn you! His three fingers twitched, imperceptibly, but they wouldn’t listen. 

Suddenly, his vision was no longer blue and the exhaustion from his nerves made him crumple to the ground like a paper plane, chest first. His shield had fizzled out. The krogan could not stop his trajectory, so he tripped on Garrus’ carapace, driving the wind out of Garrus’s chest in a painful gale and falling head first on the asphalt. Garrus turned on his side and vomited, clutching his chest and trying to breathe. 

“Gwet up, we’re dwone hyere!” the asari mumbled at him, pointing her SMG square at his forehead. 

He grovelled for a moment, clutching his stomach with his left hand. Garrus pulled the pistol he’d freed from his leg and shot her straight in the chest, once, twice, thrice, then the fourth finally found her flesh and bore a cavern in it. Biotic barrier and a shield. What on Palaven? 

The krogan was trying to get up with a broken leg, an ugly wound that he would definitely feel once the bloodrage abated. He seemed nonplussed by the shattered kneecap and useless limb. Garrus was faster as he got up, kicking the hand that hung on to the shotgun as if it were a lifeline. He almost overheated his pistol as he shot the back of the krogan’s head repeatedly. 

No one had come out. No one had even opened so much as a window to find out what is going on. Garrus listened intently, keeping his eyes on the door. Panicked voices came to him from the street he had left behind. The sound of the crowd had morphed, turning from a joyous frenzy into a cavalcade of stomping feet. 

“Something is wrong. Shepard!” he turned on his feet and entered the building, cracking the door open. 

It was a storage room, filled to the brim with sound and stage equipment. He leapt from cover to cover, but there was no guard to stop him. The door burst open and two asari in high heels screamed when they saw him. 

“Please don’t kill us! We’re just waitresses!” one of them whimpered, her hands high in the air.

“Where is Shepard?” he asked them, gun pointed down.

“Oh my god, you’re the gunman!” the other said and fainted. 

“Gunman? Where is the human?!” he raised his voice at the other asari.

“In- in the dressing room. It’s the next level. Take the stairs from here, then make a right and look for the only wooden door. Please don’t kill us, we didn’t do anything to her. She’s a single mother and I just got engaged.” 

“I’m not here for you. Pull her aside and run when she wakes up. This could turn ugly.” he gestured to the passed out asari, then left them to their own fate. As he closed the door, he heard one of them laugh hysterically, like a madwoman. 

The hallway was teeming with people running like headless xemna. The guards were blocked trying to evacuate everyone safely. There was no way he could shoot here, too many civilians. He waited for the guards to move past his cover and bolted up the stairs, only to find more chaos. Two enforcer types were standing over the dead body of another, guarding the locked dressing room door. He threw a proximity mine their way, pelting them with shrapnel. 

“Shepard!” He yelled at the door, with no answer. 

He shot the door access mechanism, only to be greeted with an empty room. 

“No, no, no!” he cursed and brandished his pistol more tightly. 

His eyes jumped to the other end of the hallway, where another set of stairs waited. He turned on his infrared sensors and saw a throng of people running towards an exit. He followed, finding another batarian guard downed not too far from away. 

Garrus bust open another door and recoiled as the kitchen staff cowered huddled together. 

“Did anyone pass through here?” he asked them as gently as he could. 

No answer. The chorus whimpered and moaned for their life, crying and screaming like banshees. 

“I’m not going to harm you. I want to find the human.”

“She’s not here anymore. I heard the guards’ radio chatter. Escaped, dead, on the run, not even they knew.” a salarian stepped forward, shielding the others with his scrawny figure. He was well past thirty by the wrinkles on his face.

Garrus looked at the salarian and let his head drop low. 

“Too late. Why haven’t you evacuated?” he opened his helmet’s face visor. Without targets suspended above their chests, Garrus could see their fear.

“Conflicting orders. First they said we should stay and locked all the access doors to catch the shooter, then released them. We would have gone, but there’s people screaming outside. We’re afraid. We’re no fighters.” 

“Come with me, I’ll protect you.” he said and clicked his helmet visor back in place. He had to return, to find a trace of Shepard. If the trace got cold, everything would fall apart.

He bust open the door to see a dead turian propping the wall.

“What happened here?” 

“An asari...she went through the door. She was armed. Then the chaos started.” a lithe turian answered.

“What did she look like?” 

“We didn’t see her too well. Brown pants, green vest, that’s all I saw.” 

“She just barged in and...the alarms started.” 

“So she left before the alarms started. And by that point, the human was gone. Did anyone see this turian gunman?” 

“We didn’t see shit.” a batarian said.

The throng of people on the street had started dimming. There were Blue Suns enforcers out now, corralling the crowd and directing traffic away from the crowd. 

Garrus was turned towards the salarian, trying to get more information from him, when the batarian cook screamed and fainted. He heard a shush from behind him and felt cold metal slip beneath his helmet. 

“Silva. Pleasure seeing you again. Hands where I can see them.” 

The salarian backed away and ran, causing the others to scatter. Soon, there were only two people on the street, except the dead body lying on the ground. 

“I told you my conditions. Kalo does not get hurt. You take the human quietly and disappear. Now take your helmet off and kneel.” 

Garrus found his limbs couldn’t move, despite having no restraints. He wrested control of himself and moved the two boulders which had replaced his hands. She had unfastened the hooks that attached the helmet. All he had to do was pull it off. For a moment, he felt the smell of his own sweat, then he was hit by the fresh air flowing through his fringe spikes. 

“Please, not like this. Don’t dishonor me like this.” he ground out, shaken.

“Mmm...nah. You wanted everything on your own terms, is that right? This is the consequence of fucking with Aria.” 

She wasn’t going to kill him just yet. If she were, she would have done that already.

“I can still be useful to you." He tried stalling, appealing to her greed. "I still have access to C-sec files.” 

“And why would Aria need that? Silly turian, she doesn’t care about your great Citadel space.” 

“Maybe not her, but her friends who are in trouble?” 

“Enough, I'm asking the questions. Do turians really believe getting shot in the back will dishonor their family?” she whispered and pressed the muzzle closer to his neck, resting it on the border of his carapace. 

She didn't wait for an answer. She released the pressure and circled him, gun still pointed at his face. It was hard not to focus his eyes on the barrel and the small, infinitesimally small metal shaving in the cartridge that would lodge itself in his brain lobe when - if - she moved her finger a centimeter closer to her palm. When. 

“I’d like to look you in the face when you do it. I’m not a coward. I want a good, honorable death. Don’t shoot me in the back. Please.” he swallowed and forced his chin higher, to look in her eyes. His body would be jettisoned in space, to join Bell in a cold universe. At least his family wouldn't know he died like a coward and a criminal.

There was a cool breeze blowing, from where, Garrus didn’t know. It soothed his tired face and wicked the sweat away. His kneecaps were scraping on the asphalt, grinding on tiny pebbles. His ankle spurs dug into his thighs. Turians were not made for kneeling.

Garrus felt the impact before he saw it. His head rung as it hit the pavement and recoiled. His fringe flattened on the ground, his eyes already partially closed. Pain shot through his back as the cartilage flattened and rebound into shape. 

“Fuck, that hurt me more than it hurt you! You turians and your exoskeleton.” Locena swore and spat on the ground next to Garrus. “Get up, Silva. We’re going on a joyride.” 

“Wh-what?” Garrus blurted, grinding the words out as he wiped blood from his nose. 

“You heard me. Your master is waiting for you. By the Goddess, how the two of you almost made a fool out of me! I should have seen it coming.”

“My master? Who?” Garrus shook his head and tried to get on his haunches, but flopped on his butt. 

The heavy gun was still pointed at his forehead. Her hands were tracking devices adjusting parameters effortlessly. 

“Don’t play the coy one with me. Get your ass up, we’re taking a drive. Aria wants to see you in person.”


	22. Unlikely bedfellows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Dictionary and worldbuilding references*
> 
> blat = asari jargon, used to denote an unlikely, if not impossible suggestion. In the construction "where in blat", it would translate to "hell" in English, although the translation is approximate
> 
> pŷrske = the first asari WMD, developed before spaceflight, similar in behaviour to napalm. So horrifying were the effects of pŷrske on the normally small asari communities that it has been outlawed immediately after its first use. The invention of WMDs in asari culture were the major trigger to globalisation and a system of matriarchal, yet distributed democratic processes.

By the fifteenth day, she could smell herself. The ship had become a cage for a blue bird in the asteroid belt, nestled away from prying eyes, itself an eye prying into the science facility miles ahead. Infiltrated at almost every level in their network, Janora had still not found any mention of the human inside. She had lost her patience a long while ago, but even she understood that going in guns blazing in the Terminus would land her in hot water back in Citadel space. So she waited, listened and searched. 

“Computer, bring up the file on Arvin Eritrus again.” 

Janora savoured the frustration she felt. The reckless turian died before she had her go at him. She would have taken great pleasure in melding with him, probing the inner recesses of his depravity, the darkest corners of his hope and hatred, the liminal space of his betrayals and lusts before putting a bullet through his thick skull.

“Slipped away. For what? Why save the human? Why risk your life after instigating the mess in the first place?” 

She tapped nervously on the keyboard, her foot restless on the floor. Something eluded her, that is for certain. Nelina Varihierax, who Eritrus had protected for most of his life, was now in prison, between the choice of public execution or quiet suicide. Janora had brought chaos to Palaven, swooping into their unassuming homes and lighting their bedsheets on fire with political turmoil. Already, before she left, there was talk of impeaching the Primarch for his failure to discover traitors at such high levels. 

She brought up all of the files once more. 

Liluva Varihierax - suicide in C-Sec captivity after presumably failing to assassinate Bellator Silva and Garrus Vakarian. It smelled like Facinus all over this one. 

Arvin Eritrus - Dead in mysterious circumstances, publicised as a suicide due to heavy mental strain after stopping the Palaven terrorist attack. Facinus again. 

Nelina Varihierax - On trial for high treason.

Bellator Silva - Missing, but where? He didn’t seem the type to be associated with a separatist group. Spectre candidate, good connections in the force, although his history was more than a bit spotty. Orphan raised by the Vakarians. Checked out of the hospital and into a cloud. C-Sec was in a tizzy looking for their hero.

Garrus Vakarian - Dead after the ship he was on exploded close to the Trebia relay. Sad, he seemed to have more potential than most birds on the force. 

Everyone touched by the scandal was either dead, or missing. The elder Vakarian’s head must be spinning out of his cowl right now, with his son dead and his own involvement in the Facinus scandal under close scrutiny. She had no illusions about her own future, should she fail her mission. Already Tevos was shrieking at the top of her lungs about delays, disasters and conspiracies. 

On the other end of Citadel space, the turians had amassed an army that vanished into thin air within a week, but without proper cause, the asari and salarians could not do anything about it other than remind the reptiles to keep the peace. Thessia was inflamed, from Serrice to Armali, while Talat and most of Sur’Kesh were already boiling over, frothing with suspicion. The turians were in full damage control mode, asserting as loud and as often as possible that it was merely an exercise and that the massed troops disbanded once the exercise was over. It would be a couple of days or weeks before the others could check that claim throughout the turian colonies, by good or ill methods. She was certain the turians hoped to be done with the war by then and present a triumphant return to the Citadel with a new client species in tow. 

Janora turned away from her chair to get some perspective. The holoscreen flickered pictures of the five, recordings, files, numbers, data connected and broken down into patterns. She had to capture the human. Time was running out. As she was walking to the armory, her ship’s computer caught a blip. A transmission from the science facility to Sur’Kesh. 

“Unusual.” she grunted and sat back down, focusing on intercepting the transmission. The more data packets she stole, the bigger the tapestry unfurled in front of her. 

“Illium. Preparing to move towards Sin’dea.” she brought her fist down on the command console. “Fooled. Computer, course towards Sin’dea.”

“Calculating required mass effect jumps. Warning! Static electrical charge is unsustainable for prolonged space travel at FTL speeds. Recommend discharge before departure.”

“And where in _blat_ do you recommend I discharge? Some cozy brothel on the space station? Don’t answer that.” she squeezed the bridge of her nose with three fingers. “Arguing with a computer. Cabin fever. Calm.” she exhaled once, inhaled and exhaled once more. The rhythmic pounding of her heart ceased to reverberate to her ears. “Calculate flight path with stops to discharge.”

In total, two days of delay. She used those days to sleep. She had averaged less than five hours of sleep for the duration of her surveillance. A day before the final jump towards Sin’dea, she called Tevos. 

“Tevos.” she opened the conversation, but had little chance of saying anything else.

“Janora V’naeri! I will pull your esophagus out through your rectum when I catch you! Have you any idea what problems you’ve caused? Where are you?” 

“Calm down. In transit towards Sin’dea.” 

“Sin’dea?! If I’m paying you so you can go booze up asari maidens and rescue some god-forsaken dirty salarians you can consider your Spectre status revoked.” 

“Don’t care. Mystery package is there.”

“You don’t care? You don’t care?! I made you what you are!” 

“I will unmake myself then. Still interested in the package?” 

“By the Goddess Athame! Of course I still am. But I’m running out of excuses for why one of our best Spectres is away and we’re this close to an official investigation into where you are. The threadbare excuse of preventing a Facinus attack blew up when you decided to bring pŷrske to a stick fight in Palaven.”

“Did it themselves. I only helped.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you have any feelings aside from those towards duct rats and slaves. How did you track it to Sin’dea?”

“Been following it for a while. The birds sold it to a private person. Hapa Kalo mean anything to you?”

“Sweet...no, we can’t piss Aria off. I forbid you to do that. If you do, I can’t save you there” 

“I’ll deal with her. And her army.”

“You have four days. If I don’t have results by then, you’re terminated. No more Spectre protection. No more cover-ups.” 

“I’ll do it in three. And use the rest to visit the Blue Oyster.”

Tevos cut the call just as Janora had her finger hovering over the disconnect button. 

“Best Spectre. Nice to be appreciated.” she chuckled and went to shower, well aware that it could be her last for a few days at least. 

Sin’dea was deceptive. As a spaceship awaited docking protocol, the haphazard style of the city-state was obvious in the numerous types and shapes of materials used for the airstrip. Most of it was built from smithing the leftover ore once the eezo extraction was done. The metals resulting from this process were crude and came out in all the wrong colors of the spectrum. Strips of sheet metal in dark copper overlapped pieces where the traces of eezo were not refined out, adding a rainbow gradient to an otherwise dull metal. 

The dock was scarcely lit in incandescent red neon colors that showcased the grime and brought the darkness closer to every corner, plaza and market. Janora hadn’t really given a thought to the architecture of the place before. Whether she was in a tall spire on Thessia, a wondrous garden-home on Sur’kesh or in the muck in Invictus’ jungles, a job was a job. 

She felt at ease in Sin’dea. These were honest people, laid bare for her to see directly into their soul with a single glance. Here greed and individualism were not couched in pompous words or grandiose gestures, they were a simple fact of everyday life. With no plush interiors and sparkling metal facades there was nothing to distract from the crimes happening daily. No excuse that “you couldn’t have known, they seemed like such nice people”. 

She looked out the viewport as she got permission to dock. The sky surrounding Sin’dea was full of debris, so much so that inexperienced pilots could crash their ship if they were not careful, thus enlarging the garbage belt orbiting the asteroid. She maneuvered down and around, decelerating slowly and carefully. When the clamps hooked onto the ship, she got up and sealed the hatch behind her, looking forward to the smell of the decontamination spray. Each planet, country, state and city could have different decon sprays, each one adapted to their necessities. Travelling meant collecting a million layers of mist on her armour. 

Once in in-processing, she surveyed the crowds waiting to come in or leave the asteroid. There was a fascinating mixture of people here. Some were wealthy or had done well for themselves, judging by their threads and the boarding gates they were waiting at, while others left the land of all opportunity with, in some cases, not even the clothes on their backs. 

She ground her teeth as she saw a batarian slaver count his catch, all decked out in slave garb and with the appropriate collar attached to their necks. Blue was for guards and soldiers, red for house staff, purple for tradesmen and women and orange for the pleasure houses. This was a predominantly purple and blue shipment of turians, asari and quarians, which meant that some volus loan shark had come to collect on debts. She inhaled sharply through her mouth and turned away just as she was beckoned to the passport desk. 

“Business or pleasure?” the bug-eyed salarian asked her at the rate of about a thousand words per minute. It came out as “biznioplejure?” 

“Both.” 

“Enjoy, there’s no shortage of either here.” he almost spat and threw the scanner down on the table, his eyes already focusing on the next person in line. 

The hagglers and tricksters waiting at the port exit gave her a wide berth, as usual. She went into the first levo shop she could find and dutifully devoured a quarter of the food there, gorging herself to the amusement of the hanar shopkeep. She was in the midst of the second set of _Amala hot skewers_ when she noticed an asari at another table staring at her. She winked. Janora put the empty skewer down and reached for a napkin to wipe her face. 

The asari maiden got up from the table and slinked her way to Janora’s. 

“You’re Janora V’naeri, aren’t you? My name’s Locena.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“Welcome to Sin’dea. What brings you here?” 

Locena smiled and took out a small book, opening it to reveal the one badge everyone hoped for and yet dreaded to see when they touched down on the asteroid.

Aria T’Loak’s sign.

“When is she expecting me?” 

Locena was stunning, from the oval face, to the high cheekbones, the round, doe eyes and the narrow cleft between her full lips. It made it hard for Janora to concentrate.

“About an hour ago. If you follow me now, she is waiting.” the asari moved closer. “We don’t see too many Spectres around here. I’m afraid you’ll always be a curiosity. And you have mine, certainly.” 

“You must get bored waiting for interesting people. Lead the way, sister.” Janora said and threw a credit chit on the table.

“Ah, you’re from a colony world, I should have known. So few people use that appellative for strangers anymore.” 

“Chalkos. Done with my biography?” 

“Chalkos, such a quaint place. Have you been recently? Best guns in the Terminus have come from there of late. I’m from Nevos myself, but it was too mild for my taste.” 

“Looking at you, can’t understand why.” 

“You’d get sick of businessmen propositioning you all the time, too.”

Janora got into the black skycar waiting for them in a dark alley. It would be an uncomfortable, albeit short ride with all of her guns strapped to her back. 

“Can’t say I’ve ever experienced that. It pays to be one of the lucky few ugly asaris. People treat you seriously.” 

Locena laughed, revealing a front row of pearly white teeth, likely veneers. When she laughed, they grazed the lower lip. Charming effect. 

“I can see why Aria likes you, Janora.” 

Locena booted up the car and veered away from the busy street.

Aria really was in a hurry to see her. And if Aria was in a hurry to see you, you were in deep shit. She couldn’t concentrate. Locena’s scent was intoxicating, filling her nose with wisps of promises too deep to be spoken in words. She was getting too vulnerable, too easily distracted. 

Janora took her gloves off and placed her hand on Locena’s thigh, rubbing the soft flesh underneath the tight pants. Locena engaged the autopilot and turned to Janora, a wry smile flitting at the corner of her lips. Janora pulled away from the kiss and slinked her hand into Locena’s pants, pushing her panties away with deft fingers. 

“No joining, just pleasure.” Janora whispered and kissed Locena’s smooth neck. She felt the other yielding control as she threw her neck back. It took Janora’s full strength to resist the urge to meld.

They parked the car in Afterlife’s private garage, amongst a myriad of designer models, garish pimped out vehicles and a veritable fleet of Aria’s black cars. Locena whispered in her ear and went in a different direction, leaving Janora alone with the trail of perfume. 

The club was being cleaned out, scrubbed to make way for more dirt. A power washer had been brought out to remove what looked like years of smoke and spilled drinks off of the walls. No one on the cleaning crew raised their eyes to look at her. They behaved as if they were spirits floating away in a superimposed picture. 

Without the wall-to-wall monitors broadcasting flames or clips of people in the throes of a dancing fever, the club was cold. The round platform that was the heart of the dancefloor had been lowered, its dancing poles no longer touching the ceiling, the bodies routinely writhing on it now asleep in their dingy apartments or some rich client’s downy bed. Even the bar was unmanned, to Janora’s disappointment. No one made a more vile alcoholic brew than the barkeeps in Afterlife. 

Janora trod on the well-worn steps as if each had a grenade tucked beneath the metal grates, waiting to fill her with shrapnel. 

Aria lay reclined on her favorite couch, surrounded by her retinue of lieutenants, sycophants and sincere followers, all protected by bodyguards that were armed with the latest guns and mods that no amount of money could buy. She didn’t need those bodyguards. Even without a bio amp strapped to her, she could lash an army off their feet without needing to recharge. 

Janora sneered when a batarian guard pushed his assault rifle in her face.

“This how you greet friends?” Janora cocked her head to the side so she could see Aria. 

“You wouldn’t like to see how I greet enemies. Berek, drop the weapon. Her leash is too short to do anything.” she laughed and reclined in the immense couch. 

She looked like she was part of the decor. Tight fitting black camo jumpsuit, a white and red leather jacket and gloves that covered the palm of her hands, on a red, blue and white background. Janora knew Sin’dea from long ago, when it was no more than a passing pirate port. Patriarch had done a good job of ruling Sin’Dea, but Aria made it flourish under her feet, by breaking it down, raking the soil and remaking it in her image.

“You called me.” Janora stood up, waiting to see whether it was truly a friendly visit. Aria motioned to the white couch farthest from her.

“Yes, isn’t that a nice surprise? Normally you’d already be here, grovelling for information or approval.” 

“Better intel this time.” 

Aria’s accent fascinated Janora. Most asaris kept their colony’s accent and dialect throughout their lifespan, a symbol of pride in their origin. Aria had scrubbed hers so meticulously that it was as if it never existed. Compared to Aria’s classic colonial, Janora was a buckethead from an isolated belter colony. 

“I love it when you go rogue. Now cut the crap.” Aria barely whispered and a gun was pointed at Janora’s head. Aria looked up to the turian bodyguard who had done that and licked her teeth with a grimace of disgust. “What are you doing?” 

The bewildered turian guard blinked and said nothing. 

“If I wanted her offed now, I wouldn’t have brought her here. I just cleaned the couch.” 

The turian dropped his weapon and stepped back to his predetermined position. 

“Now, where were we?”

“Here on business, not slaver related. I respect you too much for that. I am here, however, for the human.” Janora leaned forward, to prevent her rifle digging into her shoulder blades.

“Finally, some honesty. Come, join me for dinner. Our guest is expecting us.” 

“Dinner? Our guest?” Janora gaped, genuinely bewildered. Aria didn’t make it a habit to dine with anyone, let alone invite two people. Unless she planned to devour them alive.

“At the very least enjoy a good ice brandy with me. I don’t want to waste it on bad company.” 

Janora’s stomach rumbled, protesting the last skewer she ate.

“Honored.” she spoke and followed Aria down the steps. 

Aria motioned to her guards to stay where they were. 

“I expect this place to be spotless when I return.” she said by way of dismissal. The guards breathed a sigh of relief as they saw her backside. 

“New envoy. Pretty.” 

“V’naeri, your conversation skills have definitely improved since last time. You’ve learned to articulate the grunts.” a cruel smile flourished on Aria’s face.

Aria motioned towards a door and allowed Janora in with a swipe of her card. The control mechanism was top notch, hard to crack. 

“Down the stairs. Good. How is Tevos? A councillor yet?” 

Janora opened her mouth, but no sound came out initially. She frowned and tried to catch at least one string of words from the thousands that flew through her mind. Aria was getting impatient, making it even harder to sink her fingers in something. 

“Not yet. Maybe soon. Or maybe not. Depends on next few weeks. Maybe on human. Hard to know what goes on in her mind.” 

The stairs led to lower Afterlife, and they bypassed Patriarch’s rooms. A storage room opened in front of them and Aria put her hands on her hips, inspecting the place. Janora eyed her almost naked waist and shivered as she approached the open refrigerators.

“Ah, there it is. Serrice ice brandy, second to none.” 

“You have a dining room here?” 

“Something like that. Afterlife is a maze that I control. Now about Tevos. We’ve done some advantageous mutual deals that have ensured both of us stay on top, but I’m getting concerned she is becoming too reckless in her actions. Take your mission. Sending you out on something that requires so much diplomacy and covert action was a mistake. You’re too intense, V’naeri, and your actions on Palaven proved that well enough.” 

“Disagree. I am the only one quiet enough to keep the secret.” 

“Or the only one she can blackmail into it. Now you’re here on my territory and I don’t like it. Sure, it keeps the mercs on their toes, but there are delicate things going on that have a chance to explode if handled badly. I won’t bore you with the details.” 

“The Kar’shahn refugees.” 

“And then there’s the matter of your little helper.” Aria turned on the corridor and went down another flight of stairs, this one without any light.

Janora turned on her armor’s flashlight by habit. She should have upgraded it for one with more lumens. 

“My little helper? What do you mean?” 

Janora’s chest exploded with pain as she received Aria’s biotic fist straight in the solar plexus. She careened and hit the wall, steadying herself. An eerie blue glow surrounded the place, emanating from Aria. She looked like a vengeful malea, her eyes already blackened over. Janora knew better than to retaliate in kind.

“This...this is a prison. Why?” she coughed and caught her breath.

Aria had barely felt the punch, she'd hit more with her biotic force. The blue glow subsided and Aria furiously went to turn on the lights, revealing a corridor full of cells and two guards at the end of it, sitting impassively and watching the show. 

“Maka, Solassia, bring our newest guest out.” Aria sneered at the two guards, who nodded and executed their orders silently. 

Janora took a better look at them, searching their faces in her memory. The asari was thick and muscular, but not very pretty. A gash ran from her left eye, which was covered by night vision goggles, and down to her neck. The krogan guard was unreadable, stuck somewhere in the midst of the long middle age. It dawned on Aria who they were.

“No. Aria. Wait.” she managed to choke out. “Why The Family? I did not betray you!” 

“Didn’t you?” she turned her back on Janora and invited her closer. 

“I had my orders from Tevos to bring the human to the Citadel council. That was it.” 

“Lies!” Aria whispered and pointed her face towards one cell in particular.

The Family were the one thing you did not want to see on Sin’dea. A daughter-father team of highly trained assassins, they were at the beck and call of Aria. And when she called them, there were no survivors or witnesses to tell the tale. But it made no sense. Janora had kept away from anything that would displease Aria. Why was she targeting her now? 

The pair dragged a half-dead turian out of the cell. His green armor was splattered with blue and what had once been his face was unrecognizable. Janora had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Who is this?” she finally opened her mouth as they made him kneel in front of Aria. The turian was just as confused as her, only he did not say a word. 

“I would be careful with the questions, V’naeri. They mean life or death here.” 

Janora crouched and took a better look at the turian. The armor was standard issue C-sec, painted over a muddy green color. His head was hung low, so Janora lifted it by his chin and was struck by the cobalt blue eye that looked back at her. The ink on the markings was blotted, but the pattern…

“Still don’t recognize him? Then you’re free to vaporize the louse. I don’t have time for…”

“Wait! He’s with me. Spectre candidate. Failed his assignment.” Janora controlled the trembling in her voice as best she could.

Aria lifted her forehead as a question mark. Janora shivered underneath her three layers of insulation and pondered her choices. What did she know? What could she get away with? She had to act fast.

Janora took a step forward and raised her hands. Slowly, predictably, she hit the master switch that would unleash all the eezo clamps to her shotgun and assault rifle. They clattered on the floor uselessly and The Family took them in hand. With palms open, she dug her thumb and index finger in the pistol holster, took it out and placed it on the concrete floor, giving it a shove towards Aria. 

Then, ignoring the stiffness of her knees, she knelt by the turian with her back bent.

“Apologies, Aria, he is still in training.” 

“Whav are you doinf?” the turian whispered to her, barely audible.

“What was his assignment on Omega? Or are you here to inform me I’m under Citadel jurisdiction now?” 

“No. Mission was to infiltrate Blue suns. Spectre proving mission. Illegal shipments of drugs throughout C-space. Took him with me while I took care of human. Got lost on his way to the recruitment office and decided to be a hero. Ask Tevos.” 

She prayed that Aria would not call Tevos. She prayed that this was not the end of the line. Janora hoped Vakarian was praying too, they would need all of the bird’s damn spirits.

Aria looked them both up and down for the span of a few heartbeats, saying nothing. 

“Consider this your first and last warning. Your little whelp here went into Hapa Kalo’s establishment and started shooting anything that moves. Kalo is a paranoid asshole, so he had both the Blue Suns and Guzlum protecting him. These two merc groups were on the verge of signing a peace treaty that would end the refugee situation and bring back peace to Carrd. Silva made sure that was blown to smithereens now that each of them blames the other faction for the mess at Arkadia.” 

Janora relaxed. Now, she was certain of death. There was no way out of the mess Vakarian had made.

Just then, Aria noticed the change on Janora’s face and began laughing. 

“You’re lucky I needed them fighting. I didn’t like their friendly terms.”

Vakarian coughed and swallowed. Janora elbowed him, which elicited a wince of pain. If only he could shut up for the remainder.

“Forgive him. Just an overeager trainee. Silva will learn. I will teach him. He will know to not fuck with you. I trusted him too much.” 

“You’re much more chatty when there’s a gun pointed to your head, Janora. Remember that chattiness the next time you decide to keep me in the dark.”

“There will be no next time. Spare him. He can be a good Spectre. Not like other turians.” 

“Get up and collect your things. I want to talk to both of you. Dinner's getting cold.” 

Aria nodded to The Family and they holstered their weapons, leaving behind Janora’s arsenal. Janora didn’t trust herself to pick up the weapons.

“Hurry, I don’t have all night.” Aria growled and collected the Serrice ice brandy from a table. 

Janora got up and helped Vakarian up as well. She’d have to deal with his shellshock later. For now, she made the universal sign to get him to shut up, by dragging her thumb against her neck.

Both of their hands were shaking as they connected. Janora kept her fingers intertwined with his, to keep him moving.


	23. Unmaking yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janora is hiding a secret. Garrus confronts his deeply held prejudices. Neither of them are comfortable with their newfound alliance and their frustration only grows as they constantly fall one step behind. Can Poros and his team outwit a famous Spectre and her new failed cop ally?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dictionary and worldbuilding references**
> 
>  
> 
>  _Es stergmaiseo miloi, moni I need instructions_ = literal translation: "Like fuck I need instructions, damnit!". Universal translators have been around in the galaxy for hundreds of years in various forms. The most common and widely-used translators today are developed by salarians and adapted to each species' biological particularities. Despite a coverage of 99% of Citadel dialects, adaptations to turian biology can still fail when the user is in a heightened emotional state. The flange in their voice accentuates and becomes delayed, confounding the translation algorithm into thinking the speaker has already been replied to in the turian language. The University of Thessia's longest linguistical study is on the vast differences in pitch, tone, speed, flange, emotional and regional variations turian speakers across the galaxy. This is one of the reasons why turians attempt to speak in monotone to other species, despite that promoting an image of turians as cold, unfeeling creatures. 
> 
> _to pluck a louza_ = to waste one's time. Louzas are poultry-equivalents in turian agriculture and gastronomy. Their feathers are so fine and so thick that plucking them would entail an enormous amount of work. Consequently, a louze's feathers are burned off before it can be prepared for cooking. 
> 
> _Kharisa moni!_ = damn lunatic
> 
> Author's notes: I've been relegated to editing and typing on my mobile for the past two weeks because of doing so much overtime, and oh my is it a treat to have the time to edit on my PC! I apologise for the shoddy formatting and the patchy Dictionary references of the past 3-4 chapters and for being spotty on replying to comments. I read all of them and love them. Thank you especially to Lynn_Nexus and natsora for keeping my enthusiasm sky high! 
> 
> This is one of my favourite chapters, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it. I'm still working on my phrasing, but action scenes will always have a distinct place in my heart for their ability to bring out character interaction and scenery construction. 
> 
> We're also reaching a point in Garrus' journey that mirrors Shepard's descent. He too is learning what it means to be stripped of everything that ever defined you and the way each of them reacts to this loss of identity and repeated failure was very important for me as a writer to illustrate without being condescending or gaudy. I hope I've succeeded.

Aria ate sparingly, as if food was her personal enemy that she had to down fast in order to survive. The Spectre, whose name Garrus still hadn’t caught, was looking on raptly. He sat sipping a cocktail of pain suppressants through a straw, with his face freshly bandaged and the meds kicking in. They’d taken him to the improvised medbay, where a doctor stitched up his broken mandible. Nothing hurt anymore, at least for the span of a few hours.

“Turians have mustered an armed force and disappeared with it. Must have gone to a human planet. We need to find the human and get her to speak to her kind and the Council.” the Spectre offered impatiently. 

“And if you don’t?” 

“Chaos in Citadel space. If Asaris and Salarians find out before the council, the triumvirate will be destabilised and it will result in power struggles all throughout Citadel space.” 

He couldn’t adjust to the rapid change of the conversation, so he let the two asaris do the talking. Aria did most of it anyway. It hadn’t dawned on him yet that he was alive. The whole thing was beyond his understanding, from the beating he’d taken, to the accusations lobbed at him, down to why this Spectre wanted to lay her life on the line for him. 

“Hapa Kalo bought the human, she’s his property now.” Aria rapped her fingers on the table.

“Was.” the words escaped Garrus’ mouth. “She’s gone now.” 

“And you had nothing to do with that?” Aria trained her eyes on him and he shrunk to the size of the glass in his hand.

“I didn’t shoot the place up. I told your...eh, guards the same thing. It was chaos when I arrived and Shepard was nowhere to be found.” 

“I’m going to assume that’s the human. I need her off Munihilex, I have better things to deal with than this. And I resent Hapa Kalo for bringing her here. He crossed a line.” the furrow above Aria’s nose coincided perfectly with her purple tattoo. She was, without a doubt, one of the most frightening characters Garrus had ever met. The stories about her on the Citadel did not do her justice, and already they were a collection of quasi-fantastical hyperboles about the pirate queen of Omega. 

“We can take care of him, if you agree to lift his protection. We need to know where she is and he’s our best bet.” the Spectre lifted the glass of brandy to her mouth, sipped and closed her eyes for a second. 

She was calm, too calm for this conversation. It was nothing short of treason to the Citadel and to the order of Spectres. The way they were lobbing words at eachother, the painkillers, the tingling in his ribs made the room swim around him. He tried to bring the drink to his mouth once more, but his hands were too heavy and he slumped, vaguely aware of two people’s voices floating over his head.

“How long has he been like this?” a strange voice, different than the other two, spoke. 

“Two hours. I think.” 

The curt replies were familiar to Garrus, but he could not pull the veil away and move.

“Too much. He needs a regen field and we don’t have one.” 

“No time for a hospital. Patch him up, be done with it. He’s turian, they’re tough.” 

“Ma’am, in all my life here, I have not seen someone so gone. He’ll need a miracle.” 

“I’m here.” Garrus wanted to say. It came out as a moan.

“He’s awake. There is an option, but it’s risky. We can administer a dose of nanobots and keep him overnight in the oxygen tank. But he might not make it. The pain alone could cause his body to go into shock.” 

“Do it. I will be back to collect him tomorrow morning. On his feet or in a package.” 

Then there was milky silence, washing over him and dragging him down in the current. He felt hands on his body that he tried to stop, curious, probing, slimy appendages that stripped him bare to his skin. The ground lifted him up and covered him in a mask. The hands lowered him into a sarcophagus. And then it started.

He discovered all of his nerves and his synapses, one by one and then together, screaming out a chorus of electric impulses that misfired, bunched and grabbed and tore and splintered until he was no longer Garrus Vakarian, but a puddle of mush that was disintegrating into its constituent atomic particles. His thoughts escaped him, crushed beneath the avalanche of sensations that overruled everything he had been, was and will ever be. 

In the beginning, there was pain. In the middle, there was agony. And by the end, there was...nothing. A vast gulf of silence. 

He thought he heard Lil speaking to him through a dream, whispering in his ear. Her hands caressed his mandibles, warm and light like a summer breeze. Garrus couldn't see, but he ached to open his eyes and look at her once more. Her words were muffled, hidden beneath layers of insulation, as if she had forgotten to turn her microphone on through her helmet. He fought against the weight of his eyelids, willing his spine to send a signal to his shoulders.

“I quit!” a female with a heavy accent spat and threw some metallic objects on the floor. “I did not sign up to murder people. Harm not! Harm not! Remember that?” her pitch grew considerably until a slap rang out in the empty room. 

“Wait! He’s waking up!” 

A batarian’s face came into focus, his cheek swollen, followed by a quarian. The quarian’s helmet plate was semi-opaque, her mouth open in awe. A third face joined them, this one familiar. 

“Kid, good of you to join the living!” the Spectre sneered at him, contorting her face into an almost-smile. 

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it as a coughing fit overtook him. He leaned to the side, a difficult task in the cramped tank and dry heaved, until it dawned on him that nothing hurt anymore. 

“Slowly, slowly, don’t overwork yourself. You’re safe.” the quarian doted on him, gently supporting his back as he hacked and dry heaved. 

“Wh-where am I?” he finally managed to cough out. The words were harsh and guttural.

“Best vacation you ever took. Now get up, we’ve got business to do.” 

He flexed his muscles one at a time, straining his eyes to focus better. The Spectre kept staring at something in the tank, prompting Garrus to shift his body.

“The fu-someone give me some clothes! Where’s my armor?” he raised his voice.

“Relax, I meant it as a compliment.” she smiled in earnest now and it was ghastly.

He covered his face with his arm and groaned. After what felt like an hour, he got up, aided by the batarian and the quarian. The Spectre had left the room, giving him a modicum of privacy. 

“Everything is where you left it. You’ll notice a few changes in your body for the next few days, first among them being that you won’t be able to feel any pain. Be very careful. If you hurt yourself you won’t even know.” 

Garrus found it hard to hold a conversation as he was zipping up his undersuit and collecting his armor.

“Thank the Spirits, I’ve had enough pain to last me a krogan lifetime.” 

“You might also feel dizzy. The nanobots we used can cause side effects on turians because of your body composition. Normally we’d recommend full rest and psychiatric evaluation, but we were told to shove it where the sun don’t shine.” the batarian droned as he typed with the speed of light. 

“Good, she saved me the trouble. Thank you for helping me. Or torturing me. I’m not yet sure which. How much do I owe you?” 

Garrus picked up his duffle bag and rifled through it, noticing that his favorite mod had been nicked. The Family weren't above salvaging from the living or the dead.

“All taken care of. Good luck out there.” the quarian waved and held the door open.

The Spectre was leaning on a chair in the hallway, stiff and impassable. Behind them, the row between the two doctors started anew, this time louder.

“We have work to do, Vakarian.” she pushed on her feet and turned towards him.

“Hold on. I need answers.” 

“No, you don’t. You need instructions.” 

“Es stergmaiseo miloi, moni I need instructions! Who are you?” he swore and straightened up. “Either you tell me what’s going on or I walk out.”

“Where?” 

“Don’t play me, Spectre! I know you’re somehow involved in all of this.” 

“All of this.” the Spectre took a breath and looked him up and down. “And more. You’re after the human, I’m after the human. None of us wants her harmed. You started the circle. I’m here to end it.”

Garrus paused to really look at the asari in front of him, who hadn’t even flinched when he bared his teeth. 

“Tevos sent you.” he exhaled. “You’re the strings she pulled.” 

“Smart kid you are, Vakarian. How did you get to her?” 

“It wasn’t easy. I needed to do something. I couldn’t just sit back and watch an innocent person die.” 

“There we are. And now we’re off to kill more people. Enough for you?” 

“No. Why did you save me?” 

“You’re the only living link to the human.” 

“Then your intel is lacking. I’m the sadist who interrogated her.”

“I know Eritrus. I know your kind, too. No chance. You stuck your neck out too much. Honor and sacrifice.” 

“You risked your life for...I’m nothing to you. And you lied to Aria T’Loak.” 

“She knows I lied. She just wanted to see me grovel on my knees. No need to think about that complicated relationship. Your reach far exceeds your grasp in this matter.” 

“Well, you plucked a louza, because I don’t know where Shepard is.” 

“I know someone who does. Hapa Kalo implants tracking devices in all his purchases. If he hasn’t already sent someone to track her down, I’d be surprised.” 

“What’s the catch?” 

“You’re exasperating.” she snorted and brought her open palm to her forehead. “I work alone. The more silence, the better. But I need you and you need me.” her nostrils flared, the first facial expression he’d seen in their conversation. “Aria wants him dead. He crossed a line. We’re going to do that.” 

“That’s illegal and contrary to Spectre co-”

“Shush. One more word and I’ll remember you’re turian.” 

Garrus clamped his mouth shut. There was a dangerous undercurrent to the Spectre’s jab, a flash of something murky swimming beneath the mirror. The Spectre walked and he followed, down into an alleyway where a black, unmarked car waited for them. 

“And it’s Janora. Ground rules: you ma’am me once and I will rip your fringe bristle by bristle.” 

***

“Wrong again!” he swore as he got another red code on the access panel.

“If you don’t do it faster, the silencer will run out.” 

Janora was crouched with her shotgun at the ready, guarding his back. 

“Yes! We’re in. Now, according to my tactic assessment, we will be facing resistance on all three levels. If Kalo is as paranoid as they say, he will probably have most of his security concentrated on the sub level, where his panic room is. I advise we...what are you doing?” Garrus scratched his helmet, his gun idle by his side.

“Taking the elevator. To the lower level.” 

“The what? We’ll be target practice!” he bristled.

“Not if we throw the first grenade.” 

“Only an idiot would take the elevator. Wait. That means they won’t be expecting us. You know what? This just might work.”

“Of course it will. Find cover the second I say go.” 

They heard radio chatter from the security personnel, reassuring eachother that the perimeter is safe. The ride down took ages. As the elevator door opened, Janora threw three shrapnel grenades into a bewildered motley task force of Guzlum thugs. The remaining straddlers were not hard to deal with. Garrus collapsed his sniper, took aim, exhaled and planted a bullet between a batarian’s eyes, while Janora made quick work of a turian.

“Wanna wager?” Janora asked, pointedly wiping her armour of blue blood.

“Twenty guns inside, meat shields.” Garrus replied as he placed a couple of proximity mines near the two entrances.

“Typical C-sec. No more than five. Blast doors. You do your thing.” 

“I’m starting to think you brought me along just to break codes.” 

“You have your uses. If only you shut up.” 

The doors opened, creaking and catching on the mechanism. The two of them gasped as a rocket sailed past them, nearly missing Janora and exploding on the elevator door, pelting them with shards of metal and debris.

“Angry. I will end you.” 

Hapa Kalo faced them head-on, a rocket cannon strapped to his back. 

“This was not in my training manual!” Garrus’ voice rose of its own accord. 

Janora’s face changed before his eyes. It was as if a hundred years had been removed from her. She lit up and loosened her limbs, assuming a predatory stance, lithe on her feet. Her shotgun sang out as she danced around the rockets, oblivious to him. 

“Janora! Squadmate in need!” 

“Focus on his shields, I’ll keep him distracted. Can’t babysit now. Do or die.” she voiced through the comm and cut him off, muting his voice.” 

“Kharisa moni!” he growled at her and ran behind a barricade that offered flimsy cover for a sniper perch. He switched to his handgun, extending it and loading it up with shredder rounds. 

It was useless. The second Kalo’s shields fizzled, he raised a tech barrier, cutting them off and separating them. While he recharged, he activated two turrets that locked on Garrus’ and Janora’s position. 

“Janora, duck!” he screamed as the Spectre’s shield fizzled. With a biotic charge, Janora powered through to cover.

“Turrets. Generators. You, left.” 

“On it! Thanks for unmuting me.” he chuckled and powered an overload field from his omnitool.

The turret sputtered and stopped, its internal mechanism confused. Janora took the less elegant route, charging her amp for another leap and unloading the full strength of her biotic barrier into the machine. 

“Two down, two to go. Be careful, he’s locking you in his crosshairs.” 

“I got this.” Janora said as she strafed the rockets, sidestepping them in a series of artistic pirouettes. 

Garrus circled Kalo’s command area, taking cover behind the control panel. He lobbed his last two grenades on each generator, setting them off with his gun.

“How do I not have an evil lair? I have enough flair, you know.” 

“Too good looking to be a villain, kid. Now, take me…” she grunted as she charged towards the elcor, once again risking her biotic barrier for a shock hit.

Her fighting style was completely unpredictable, just as unhinged as she was. Garrus had never seen something like it in his life. She was committing suicide once per minute, diving, charging, emerging from cover before her shield recharged, overheating her shotgun seconds after she blew her biotic barrier and then running away. The elcor swiped at her, chased her with rockets, tried to corner her, ignoring Garrus completely. He couldn’t rely on his targeting algorithms to calculate shots not knowing where she’d reappear, so he lifted his visor to see the field better. 

She didn’t need him. He regrouped and started combing the console for traces of Shepard’s whereabouts. He searched frantically, aware that Janora was going to get tired soon. 

“Found it yet? Can’t keep him busy forever. I need your overload.” she panted and screeched to a halt, only to jump back into the fray.

“There it is. I have it! Charging overload. Stand clear.” he grunted and braced himself for the kickback. 

Hapa Kalo staggered and almost tripped forward, over Janora. At the last moment, he slammed both hands on the ground and stabilised the bulk of his body. 

“Janora, now! Janora?” 

He raised his head, bewildered, to search for the Spectre. The air had changed, there was an electrical current pulling him towards the center of the room. Through the command console’s glass pane, he watched raptly as Janora approached her prey, lulling it into her arms.

“You don’t have to run anymore. No more hiding. Come closer. Closer to me. Tell me your secrets. Tell me the things you’d do for me.” 

Garrus raised his rifle and pushed the door open, but Kalo was not fighting anymore. His eyes were fixed on Janora’s mouth. Her face had transformed, the corners sharpening up, her almond eyes now twin dark crystals levitating on a gruesome, cruel face. Garrus stood rooted to the spot, horrified and fascinated at the same time.

“I’d do anything for you. Kill, maim, murder, anything you want.”

“Oh, but those are the things you want, my fleeting love. Unburden yourself. Embrace finality.” 

His head pounded with a slow thrum, as if he was hearing a broken heart rhythm on the coms, covered in static. Garrus steadied himself, but found he could not resist the pull of Janora’s eyes. Her commanding presence beckoned to him.

She spread her arms wide and cupped the elcor’s head, the full measure of her lust pouring into his bleeding mouth.

“Yes, show me the world through your eyes. I want to know everything.” 

“Janora, stop! Stop it!” Garrus screamed with all his might, to a muted pair of speakers.

As if she listened to him, Janora let go of Kalo’s head, raising her face towards the neon lights. She still bathed in that spectral glow from before, but it had started fading, slowly replaced with contentment.

“You went so soon.” she whispered towards the slumped corpse and turned towards Garrus.

“What did you do to him? You killed him!” 

“That was our mission.” 

“I didn’t...how is that possible? How could you kill him just by melding with him?” 

“I have special gifts that I need to use from time to time. Relax. You were in no danger. The world is rid of a danger, in fact. Or maybe two, at least for a while.” 

“How can you be so cavalier about this? Like it’s nothing! Did he suffer?”

“It is and he did. We’re not so different, you and I. Don’t give me the book reading.”

“You’re sitting there acting as if we’re just comparing armor specs. We are not!”

“Aren’t we? You kill from a distance, I kill from up close. You want to see their faces, I want to see their souls.”

“But I’d never force so much suffering upon someone else.” he screamed and banged on a barricade, his spine ramrod straight. He closed the distance between him and Janora in one leap, but was stopped dead in his tracks by a dagger that seared through him.

“I wonder if this human trophy thinks the same thing.” she looked at him ruefully, sadness now morphing her face into a different clay mask.

“She is not a trophy for me.” he retorted, his voice filling the room, ricocheting from the walls.

“By the Goddess, you care about her!” she blinked and searched for his eyes to no avail. The hazy dark curtain had lifted away.

“Of course I care! I lost and sacrificed everything I know to do this! She...I am failing every step of the way.” he repeated the words in a mutter, his fists bunched uselessly by his side. “She had a home and a family, like any one of us. She was not an enemy. Not someone to be paraded by the Empire while we enslave her kind. And I don’t know why I’m telling you this. You’ll enjoy telling yourself this story to get off when you can’t torture people.” 

“No, I won’t. We’ll find her. You’ll see.” 

Janora opened up her omnitool camera, angling her arm to catch a full view of Hapa Kalo’s inert body. Garrus growled and slapped her hand away, amazed at his own temerity.

“You can not disrespect a body like that!” he hissed.

“It’s a picture. For proof. What disrespect?” she looked around and then back at the body. “Ah! Forgot. Turians don’t take pictures of the dead. How do you photograph a crime scene then?”

“Only the hastatim do that on Palaven. How can you not know that?” 

“We’re not on Palaven. Or in Citadel space. Understand that. Get it through your thick skull. Adapt or die. Still coming with me?” she said as she took the picture.

“Yes. I don’t have to like it, but I’ll do it.” he replied as he climbed the service stairs to the upper level. 

“Don’t like it. False. You do like it. C-sec has you chafing.” 

“How would you know that?” 

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Good point. Or maybe I’ve gone mad.” 

“Haven’t we all? Good job on the turrets. Expedient.”

The street opened to them in dull, washed out colors. Munihilex’s artificial lighting system needed an upgrade. 

“Aria, it’s done. Minimal casualties. No civilians.”

“Good. Always a pleasure doing business with you.” the voice filled the dismal silence of the alley. 

“Likewise.” Janora said flatly and closed the link. “I need a rest.” 

She led him to the railway and back to the dextro district. They chose one of the few places that didn’t look like a reclaimed bomb shelter and dived in. As he sat on the rickety chair, Garrus was starting to feel the effects of the previous night. He settled on water.

“You said you had...gifts. Can all asari do what you just did?”

“No.” 

She didn’t look like she wanted to continue this conversation, but he waited, browplates askance in a silent question. 

“There’s a reason we mate predominantly outside of our species. Well, most. And it’s not only genetic diversity. Purebloods can come out wired the wrong way. We overload our partner’s brain when melding because our neurotransmitters are too strong. They call us demons of the night, Ardat-Yakshi, and hunt us down.”

“So you kill instead of...intimacy?” he ventured, unsure of the territory.

“Yes. And the urge to kill is very strong in most. Some only maim or handicap. I go all the way. Not because I wanted to. At first.” she downed her tea to its dregs, a motley lilac color.

“What happens if you resist the urge?” 

“Take the habit and isolate yourself from the world. There are monasteries for people like me. Justicars give you a choice. Not much of one. Death or isolation. No middle ground.” 

“So you take that urge out on criminals, denying them a just trial.” 

“So they can escape and wreak more havoc? How many have you put behind bars and then saw them walk out unscathed? How many have laughed in your face as they went back to harming others?” 

She ordered another tea. The whites of her eyes were dotted with purple, her shoulders slumped. The sleepless night, the fight, the killing, they were each a new wrinkle on uncharted territory. Garrus let her words slip to the back of his throat, tasting them as they slid past his tongue.

“More than I can count. You risked a lot by doing this in front of me. What if I tell when I’m back in Citadel space?” 

“I don’t expect you to survive this. But people like me need a regular feeding schedule. Best kept checked. On a leash. I’ll deal with your knowledge later. If we both survive.” 

“You were right. I am in over my head. This is contrary to everything I ever thought I knew about the world.” he looked out through the window at a turian couple passing by. “But I can’t help feeling like your way is better. More permanent.” 

“Can’t say I understand turians. Or their way of thought. Too strict. I’m no justicar.” she swirled her cup, looking to the other patrons in the bar. She closed and opened her left hand, as if she were unsure what to do with it when her fingers did not cup the muzzle of her shotgun. “You’re different, though. Not as turian. Why you doing this? You’ve dealt with prisoners before, no emotional involvement. And here you are, millions of miles away from home, a runaway.” 

It was her turn to ask uncomfortable questions and Garrus ground his teeth. If he’d been a good turian and minded his business, served the Empire, kept his head down, done his job, brought praise on his family...what was the point? She could never judge him as harshly as he did.

“I never thought I’d encounter a truly alien species. Turians never handle diplomacy - don’t snort, you’re not a shining example of asari diplomacy either. Fine, I’m not a good example of turian discipline and abnegation either.” he sighed and swirled the glass in his hand. They were both smiling. “At first, it was curiosity. Then I saw how the scientists treated her. It wasn’t pretty. And then, I actually had a chance to talk to her and see that we’re not that different. I made a promise on Ostia that I intend to keep, no matter the cost. ” 

“So rash you could call it fully delusional. How do your friends fit in here?” 

“Lil...uva Varihierax wanted to advance in rank. We were stumbling blocks to her goal. And Bell was, Bell was…” 

There was something choking his throat, making it impossible to continue. The batarian waiter dropped a full tray of food on a krogan’s head. He fainted once he’d seen who he’d hit hit. The other batarian at the table laughed his heart out and slapped the warlord’s hump.

“Collateral. Terrorists, or the Empire, thought he was you. A lot harder to kill the Chief Hawk’s son, but if it’s an accident...” Janora finished his sentence, moving her hand towards her shotgun and unholstering it, settling it on her thighs. “Why not go back to your family? Enroll in the army and leave the Citadel behind?”

“Why don’t you leave the Citadel behind and live the rest of your life in peace?” he turned it around and smiled at her. “Because you're searching for something, too. Let’s leave it at that.” 

They stood in silence for a moment, digesting their words. Garrus opened his omnitool and began looking at the files. They were a jumbled mess of security footage, medical data, plans for building an enclosure and finally, a GPS tracker. Janora was only half-attentive to him. He was disgusted enough by what he saw before he opened the last film, a drone camera recording of the club show where Shepard was paraded around in a wet dress.

They’d treated her worse than a prisoner, they looked at her like an animal in an enclosure. As the footage unwound before his eyes, plain terror was obvious in the way she walked, the furtive glances she took towards the crowd, all hidden beneath a plaster smile that looked unlike her. He froze the screen to a still when Shepard walked back from the podium, a grim determination on her face. 

“She couldn’t have been alone in escaping. There is no way someone who has never been to Munihilex can just vanish like that, least of all an alien with distinctive traits no one has ever seen before. Her current GPS coordinates place her about 5 clicks away from us, but there’s something off about it.” he tapped on the table and rewound the footage.

“It’s the red belt. What’s so odd about that?” 

“Eh, um...it’s.” 

“The red belt. Where else can you hide a female if not in an area famous for brothels?” Janora said. 

Janora sunk into one of her bouts of silence, which Garrus had come to accept as a consequence of straining to speak for too long. The Spectre guarded her words with jealousy, probably finding no problem in not talking to anyone for weeks on end. Did she confess to her VI? To the walls? Garrus could see that happening. 

Their personalities matched about as much as their fighting styles had. She unnerved him with her robotic voice, her static mannerisms, her thirst for killing and, most of all, with her disregard for any rule, morality and honor. If his father were here, or any blue blooded turian for that matter, they would stop her at all costs, renounce their association and bring her to trial. 

Yet he was hesitating. What did that say about him? 

That afternoon, as Janora was asleep aboard her ship, he snuck out of the weapons room, still disoriented, and stole her omnitool from her locker. It was keyed to her biometric readings. He jacked it into his own omnitool and bypassed the identification protocol. There was scant information outside of gun calibration algorithms and optimizations for her bio amp. Just as he was about to give up, he noticed a folder that was larger than all the others. It was poorly encrypted, compared to the military grade encryption in the other files.

He opened it surreptitiously and looked around to see if she woke up. There was no noise coming from outside his bubble. The first picture was of Hapa Kalo, slightly out of focus and blurred. The next few, however, looked as if they were staged by a professional. A hanar with his lung sac collapsed and tentacles shorn off, a batarian with red sand in his eyes, two turians whose glassy, fishlike eyes were focused on one another. A well-dressed asari with a contract pinned to her embroidered chest. Hundreds of pictures. They all looked empty, devoid in death of that calmness that befell all corpses. Their cheeks had hollowed out, their eyes covered with a murky film, their whole countenance exuding fright. Garrus couldn’t stomach any more. He’d seen bodies, corpses and mutilated people, but never like this. 

“Were you not taught it’s impolite to spy?” Janora’s voice raised bile in his throat. 

There was no use pretending. He got up from the table and turned to face her. The air stood still between them, waiting for the first movement.

“Your tongue gone?” she pressed on, more disappointed than angry. “Tell me. I’ve heard everything before.” 

“No. You tell me. How are you allowed to continue being a Spectre?” he threw the omnitool at her. 

“No one cares if the tool is crooked as long as it does its job.” 

“You told me you did this to criminals. They were all slavers, I recognize the trappings. Why?” 

“You were right, I’m looking for someone. Not something. A slave. Your turn now. Why did you do this?” she asked and leaned on the door jamb, rubbing her sleep-addled eyes.

“I wanted to see with my own eyes who you were.”

“Satisfied, I hope. Gear up, we’re heading her way.” 

She left him behind, leaning on a chair with his chin almost resting against his chest. 

***  
“Sure this is it?” she said as she shoved shredder ammunition in her handgun.

“For the last time, no. GPS positioning does not mean I can tell if she’s in the bathroom on the third floor. We’re just going to have to go in and search.” he snorted and looked at her. Her oval eyes were narrowed further. “Put the gun away, we are not shooting anyone. This is a recon mission.” 

“Feels naked.” she brushed her shirt as if it were her armour and was surprised when the pressure of her stroke flattened her breast.

Janora reluctantly put her gun away. Garrus opened the door and went in, only to stagger and stop a few paces in.

“Surprised to see females here?” Janora snickered and pushed him onwards, towards a volus matron who stood at the bar.

“Not my kind of females.” he shot back and eyed the matron suspiciously. “Let me do the talking.” 

“Pretty boy.” she retorted, but stayed behind him.

Garrus ogled the naked frescoes adorning the ceiling in front of the bar. Two cave maidens raised their arms from each side, drawing attention to a field where quarian and volus women without their suits frolicked around a copse, bare on a sunny day. His eyes avoided their nakedness and fixed themselves on a quarian with a luxurious mane of dark hair. An immense mirror reflected the anteroom and he caught a look at himself as his eyes shifted downwards. The lavish civilian clothing Janora had bought for him was hanging loosely, a worrying sign for turians. Garrus was starting to look less and less like a soldier and more like a merc pirate. Janora was tapping her foot while pretending to be interested in the datazines.

“This is your first time, sweet bird?” the volus matron whispered to him, gently tugging his arm down until he was sitting on a chair. “We’re very welcoming here. Why don’t you have a drink with me? I’ll introduce you to the girls.” 

She had a gentle, motherly demeanour about her. Garrus barely even heard the hacking and wheezing of her breathing, so calming was her effect.

“I’ve been before, but not in a...in such a custom place.” he stammered for a bit, then regained his composure.

“Oh, this place is different, I will grant you that. We don’t see many turians here that enjoy a good pressurised romp.” she said and winked, the feedback on her suit shutting light from one of the eyeports for half a second.

“I’m in the market for something unique.’

 _“Smooth, Vakarian. Don’t go into detail. Don’t make her suspicious.”_ Janora said in a soft voice, barely audible as a tinny sound in his radio piece.

“Unique, you say? We’re open to client suggestions, for a reasonable extra fee. What do you have in mind?” she adjusted a strap on her exosuit and huddled closer.

“Quarian, volus in an exosuit link, hanar, asari I’ve done them all. Even elcor. It’s all boring to me now.” he drawled on, feigning indifference. 

_“Me too. Hanar are surprisingly good lays.”_

“I want something new, fresh, exciting. Anything unusual come off the tradeships recently?” 

“You must be mistaken. We don’t deal with trafficked species.” the matron turned on her chair, leaning out. "You can find the best of all the red belt here, all you need to do is make a choice."

“Not even for a good price? I have credits enough to sustain it.” 

He fished in his lapel pocket and placed a credit chit gingerly on the bar, pushing it towards the matron. She pawed at it, reading the figures with what Garrus hoped was awe. It was hard to tell behind the glowing spheres in the middle of the exosuit’s eyes.

“Maybe we have something. Bipedal or quadrupedal?” she put the chit back on the table, but did not move it towards Garrus.

“What about a pink asari?” he said and leaned his elbows on the bar, turning his neck to look at her.

“That, my dear birdie, is a tall order. There’s only one known to exist, and she is safely in Hapa Kalo’s mansion. I can make a few discreet calls to inquire, however. Follow me.” 

“Janiri, come, we’re leaving the hallway.” he motioned to Janora, who nodded and moved away from the news stand.

“Your bodyguard is very interesting. My dear, can I interest you in something while you wait?” 

“Wherever Lucanus goes, I go.” she responded gruffly and looked down upon the volus matron, who had grabbed Garrus’ arm and was leading him away. 

“Oh, if only I found more bodyguards as professionally stingy with their words as yours. Or willing to watch me taking some pressure off. Now, through this door, please.” 

She indicated an odd metallic door which was covered in threads of red and green beads hanging over the doorjamb. The door opened without a noise and she pushed the beads aside, gliding through. Janora looked at Garrus and then pushed past him, one hand tucked in her waistband, squeezing the pistol. She disappeared beneath the beads and then reappeared a second later, almost flying past him in a fizzle of purple sparks.

“Shotgun. Draw your weapon.” she wheezed and stabilized herself. A moment later, her biotic barrier regenerated.

“Looks like we came to the right place.” Garrus drew his gun humorlessly and brandished it in both hands.

“Shit, I liked this place. If I’m banned from the red belt, I blame you.” Janora grunted.

They scrambled for the nearest cover, opposite one another. Garrus leapt behind the bar, while Janora chose a solid table and upended it. Mechs began emerging from beneath hidden crevices and alcoves, charging their automated guns. 

“Fifteen mechs? Really? Some of the Citadel government bodies don’t have that many!” Garrus spat as a hail of fire drenched him in broken glass and alcohol. 

“Hey handsome, if it tastes sweet, don’t lick it off!” Janora giggled as she threw a biotic singularity at a clump of mechs, priming them for Garrus to explode an overload.

“I’m aware of chirality, thanks. Mech on your three!” 

He risked his shields to explode the mechs. A bullet whizzed a centimeter past his exposed head and he bit his tongue dropping back down into a crouch. Janora leapt over the table and zig-zagged her way to better cover, distracting the robots focusing on Garrus. With their backs turned to him, exposing their wiring, Garrus picked them off one by one, as Janora lashed them off their feet. 

When the last one shut its ominous red eyes, he ran towards Janora across a carpet of broken glass and splintered wood.

“Vakarian, slow it.” 

Janora’s eyes focused on the blue blood seeping through his suit. Garrus looked down at his waist and opened his mouth. He hadn’t felt anything. A piece of glass the size of a finger was jutting from his shoulder. He removed the glass, pulled his shirt up and inspected his waist.

“It’s just a graze.” 

“Good. Let’s go.” 

Through the doors, the fighting got thicker. They passed automated machine guns one after another, always at a bend in the corridor that provided the least visibility. It was slow going, having to wait for their shields or barrier to recharge, but the maze that was this brothel continued on and on, feeling endless. A few guards accosted them, but Garrus made short work of their life. These people had no names, no family, no personality to him. He didn’t need Janora, the rage that flew blue through his veins made him see an ocean of fury ahead. And he was drowning, welcoming the roaring waves into his lungs. Shepard’s face swam in his peripheral vision, always there, always out of reach.

They walked up the stairs to find another door in their way. Garrus shot the mechanism and they both took a side and waited for it to open.

Garrus was the first to appear in the doorway and see a dozen quarian and volus women all huddled together and screaming hysterically. They were dressed in garish exosuits, a mass of multicolored mayhem. He thought he saw a glimpse of red hair bobbing up from the tangle of bodies.

“Shepard? Shepard!” Garrus yelled and the women yelled louder.

“Ladies, we mean you no harm.” Janora stepped in and motioned for the women - and men, now Garrus noticed - to leave. 

As they filed out, Janora looked at Garrus and stifled a laugh. He wanted to wipe it away.

“Look carefully at each one. She might be among them.” 

But she wasn’t. Each subsequent room was a chore of repetition, dimming Garrus’ hopes, chipping at them slowly, with each door opening. The sounds of fornication had died down as the alarms blared ever louder.

“No, not that room!” Janora almost slapped his hands away, much to Garrus’ wonder. “It’s pressurized. If there are naked volus in there, they’ll explode. Shepard is definitely not there.”

They forged on until the last room was opened, with no signs of Shepard. The matron’s room was empty, her computer broken down. Garrus turned and looked at the wall of still-functioning security cameras, seeing clumps of people running away from the brothel in disarray. 

“It's a good thing I'm dead. I don't think I could have recovered if my C-sec buddies heard of me shooting up an exosuit brothel. Horosk is not enough to wash that shame away.”

“Ah, horosk, the only drink for which you need the stomach of a krogan and the resilience of a volus whore.” she sneered. "Allow me." 

Janora sat down at the computer as Garrus turned his weapon towards the door. Her suit had burst at the seams around the shoulders and was a mess of dust and sweat. He didn’t want to think about how he must look.

“What about you?” he asked, more to dispel the silence. 

“I don’t drink anymore.” 

“Not sure if I trust someone that says that. What kind of secrets are you hiding? Except the obvious.” 

“The kind that make you stop drinking.” she grunted and smashed her fist on the cracked keyboard. “Bust. Shepard was never here.” 

“But the GPS signal…” Garrus trailed off as he noticed a small jar filled with a viscous liquid. He took it in his palms, checking the weight of it, then smashed it on the ground. “Here’s the tracker.” 

Janora looked down at the small neck implant jutting out of the goo. She turned towards Garrus and brought the hand with the gun to rest against the side of her face. 

“Dead end. Again. We’ve lost. How does this keep happening to me? How?!” he yelled, crushing the tracker beneath his boot. 

“The matron didn't wipe everything. Unencrypted messages, might lead us further. Come on, we're leaving.” 

Janora cocked her pistol and got up. Garrus looked at her for a moment, then followed, in spite of himself.


	24. Cleansing fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poros Temkor is not what he seems. Shepard searches for Garrus with a little help from Poros' team. The final jump to Shanxi might not be as safe as she thought.

He was sitting on a chair in front of her bed, calm as only lake water could be. His fine black and gray suit belied the copper color of his skin, exposing a square plunging neckline. The room was small, with real fire burning in twin barrels at the end of the row of bunk beds. The reddish light muted out the green on his face and brought out his ascetic features. He was handsome, even in the dim light. 

“Once more, with me.” the drell spoke softly, with a low thrum at the end of his words. “Si-a-al Da-a-rr-a. You need to say it right.” 

“Siail Darrá.” she repeated and it sounded wrong. 

“It’s too proper when you say it. No asaris cultivate that accent unless they’re going into show business.” he replied and looked into her eyes. “You have to become Siaal. Get to know the name and you will become the person.” 

“Sia-a-l...who was she?” 

“No one I knew, but her ID has recently been...freed.”

“Did you have a hand in this?”

“I am a forgerer, not an assassin. I don’t have the stomach for wanton bloodshed. What do you think is her story?” 

“Poros, I can’t do this. I can’t sit here and wax poetic on someone who doesn’t exist while I think about Shanxi burning.” 

She sighed and got up, walking the few feet it took to get by the fire. The warm licks of flame almost touched her fingers and she rubbed her hands. Above the barrels, a picture of some far-away planet taken from space gave her the shivers. She turned towards the bunks, looking for the comforting signs of personal items. The top bed above hers was plastered with posters in a strange script, dotted from place to place with personal pictures of the salarian soldier and what Shepard thought was his previous life as a kindergarten teacher. Smiling faces of juvenile salarians grabbed and tugged at his clothes, crawling all over him in the sunny spring afternoon.

“Jane…” he turned in his seat and rested his foot on the bed, fully engrossed in her. “You must try. Embrace the alienness of it, let go of yourself.” 

“What do you want me to say? When I was back home, I was one of the best infiltrators in my region. I was on an N-track, which means I was able to steal enemy secrets by just looking at a picture of their computer. But what’s the use of it now? Who is Siaal Daara? What will she do when she reunites with her kind? Who the fuck knows? To hell with all this!” she said and turned to Poros.

“You are dispirited by months of captivity. It’s a natural reaction. I often get turian freedom fighters here after long work assignments and they are broken, too. That’s what they call forced labor in the Empire. But you are a strong one, Jane, you can push back against what has been done to you. Imagine all your kind being servants to turian interests. Now imagine if someone saw through your disguise as you were preparing to board the final craft that will take you to Shanxi.” 

“You’re right.” she scrunched her face and took her place on the bed. “Siaal Daara - pause to check for his approval - is a mercenary in her maidenhood. She is travelling the world carefree and wants to visit her sister on Illium. Her sister works in weapons technology. They were both raised by a single batarian father and are now orphans. How does that sound?” she rubbed her temples and then rested her head on her fist.

“Like so many personal tragedies, it sounds commonplace. Good.” he extended his hand and took her free one in his grasp, squeezing lightly. 

His hand felt smooth and cold, much like she expected. The drell was easy and open to her, right from the moment she knocked on his door. 

Two lieutenants had taken her in and led her to a small greenhouse on the second level, where he sat on a bench, oblivious to the world, meditating with open eyes. The turian and asari lieutenants stopped at a respectable distance and had instructed her to go up to him. 

From that moment on, she was treated as royalty. The others in the hideout, soldiers and engineers and medics did not shy away from her, inviting her to their dinners and to play card games she couldn’t understand. Their million questions were never prying or simply professional, but felt like genuine curiosity in a comrade. It was a whole other galaxy in the confines of this hideout. She found it unbelievably easy to forget they were terrorists. 

His voice brought her back to the present. She blinked away the thoughts. 

“There has been an attempt to recapture you already. They swallowed the bait and followed the GPS signal. Professional infiltrators by the look of them, none of Kalo’s riff-raff. Sei had to abandon her post and leave her charges behind. I will have make it up to her.” 

“Why? Why do they do this? Why can’t they just leave me alone?” she shook her head.

“The prize is worth it in their greedy minds. You will have to leave sooner than I thought. Tonight.” 

“Who were they?” 

“Some faceless turian and an asari. Professional, but uncoordinated. They were probably two contract workers who decided to split the ransom. The Empire has backchannels they can use, despite their protests to the contrary. "I had Keff search the street cams from last night, you did good with the disguise. You have an innate talent for this work and I never hid that we could use another soldier on our side. There are so many worthy causes you could help.” 

“You’ve been kind to me, Poros. I will find a way to repay you, but I can’t stay here now. Why do _you_ and your people help Facinus? They’re turians fighting amongst themselves.” 

“It’s never that simple, Jane. This galaxy of ours, small as it may seem, holds billions of souls and bodies. There are many drala’fa who are excluded from their rightful inheritance as children of the world. They don’t want violence, but they are forced to use it. They just want a place in the world where they can determine their fate. And on Kahje, many drell are still struggling to be regarded as more than second class citizens. We dream of a world we can make ours again, but the odds are still against us. The Compact saved us, but it also enslaves us to the hanar in ways we cannot refuse or might even consider an honor. You will understand then that I can empathise with turians seeking self-determination away from the Empire.“

He fell into one of his trances. His eyes glazed over with his mouth slightly parted. Shepard thought about how much suffering he must have seen and how remembering it must have broken him in ways she could not understand. She thought of her own dead, of her mother and father, whose faces she no longer remembered, of her husband Alexey whose smile was fading even now, as she tried to reconstitute his face in her mind’s eye. To Jaroslav, Chandra, Moore, Smith and all the other crew thirty strong, who perished for nothing and prevented nothing. Her own daughter probably forgot who she was by now.

“If I die, will you remember me?” she blurted and then regretted interrupting him from his reverie. 

“Such a turian thing to say. Of course I’ll remember you. You will be a hero to your kind, and I am honored to have met you before the wide world.” 

He got up to straighten his suit, taking great pains that the neckline did not cover his chest. The plunging décolletage struck Shepard as odd, in contrast with the sobriety of the rest of the suit. 

“Kalo is dead. Is it enough for what you suffered?” 

“Compared to what I've been trough, that was a vacation. I didn’t hate him, much as I resent him.” she fidgeted with the omnitool in her palm, thumbing the smooth surface.

“You’ll get your revenge, siha, but I fear it will taste of ashes.”

“If only it were as simple as revenge, Poros. I want my people safe, no matter the cost. Every moment I spend out here is time I don't spend helping Shanxi.”

“I apologise for my comm engineer. She tried her best, but she found no trace of activity in the cluster you mentioned.”

“Shanxi is still considered a military colony, so I don’t doubt they have encrypted channels. I didn’t expect her to make contact, even with the protocols I knew.”

“I have to ask, Eritrus…?”

“He...he died on Palaven, attempting to save me. He was betrayed by Facinus, or by his wife, I don’t...I couldn’t really understand.” 

“He must have had a good reason for giving his life for you. One of the smartest people I've ever met, and a good friend.” he sighed imperceptibly and looked away.

“There are so many things I don’t understand.” 

“You have seen much pain and suffering in your short time in the galaxy. I wouldn’t fault you if what you tell your people will be stories of monsters. This is what separation makes of all of us, and the Empire is no more rational than the hanar they look down upon for having sclaves. Simply more headfast.” 

“Thank you for helping me. I’d like to take a walk and clear my head before leaving tomorrow. Do you mind?” 

“As you’d like. Come see me before you go.” he got up and paced away, his footsteps barely making a sound on the concrete or metal grating. 

Shepard hadn’t expected Poros to look as he did. She imagined a kindly old man with a wrinkled face when he spoke to her, someone whose years were close to an end, not the young, sharply dressed diplomat who appeared before her. With her daughter’s eyes in her mind, she cursed herself for being tempted by his offer of staying. 

She left the dorms and trailed off, past the weapons room where the two salarians were arguing with one another, both caked in oil and brandishing dirty rags at the back of their pants. This scene was familiar to her. She was happy to see the asari in the greenhouse, playing a game of Temera against an AI and losing with little grace. Her normal height brought everything back into proportion, whereas the salarians and turians only made her feel like she was a child sitting at the adults’ table. 

Asaris, salarians, turians, batarians, krogans, volus, elcor, hanar. So many people, so many cultures. The linguist in her thrilled at hearing the nasal, long winded speech of salarians, the way they said so much while saying so little.

She rested her body on the doorjamb and listened to Wik and Falk. She delayed the translator, taking in the sound of their voices. 

_“Inosta ledre fa’ruk meca manna menna castun sterepa, lei oc fer’ka terra duc get ban.”_ Wik said, laughing. 

_“Bar’tosh castun sterepa, simeni inosta leka darakan nem ca nei ratuna nem ca nei legona pac’ruk terek fela.”_

“I think you forgot to install the software for the flashlight.”

“Like fuck I forgot the software, it’s not that or this useless VI.”

They spoke so fast that it didn’t feel as if they said many words, but the voice-to-text feature was frantically trying to reproduce their words on the omnitool screen. Her translator had improved immensely over the weeks, even though it still referenced turian as a prime translation source. Oftentimes, she had had to ask the asari or batarian guards in Kalo’s employ to repeat or rephrase what they said, because an equivalent could not be found fast enough in the turian language, or if it was, it did not translate naturally into Common Speech.

_“Fenne lei semattesh, Csepa!”_ Wik turned and waved at her. _“Inoste ca nei Falk perepara amma dirk menne manna castun sterepa. Osri ledre inostai cam gartesh?”_

_“Bar’tosh ledre, dalik mirkai dalatrass!”_ Falk spat back at him, still smiling.

“Warm days, Shepard! Falk and I are working on his gun’s flashlight software. Wanna join us?” 

“Fuck you, son of a travelling dalatrass!” 

“Thank you, but I doubt I can really help, that thing looks a bit too complicated for my expertise.” she pushed on her leg and tuned the delay in her translator.

“Nonsense, Shepard. If Wik can make this work, anyone can. You have mass effect drives in your weapons?” Falk came over to her, corralling her inside quite effectively.

“Ah, yes, recently. We just discovered mass effect drives, there’s nothing like what you have. I saw the fighter ship in the hangar, it’s like...do you understand the idea of magic? The paranormal?” 

“ _Sinesse._ Make-believe. Yes, I think we do. But this is real, Shepard, not make-believe.” 

“You have a beautiful language. I’m a communications officer and I never thought I’d hear alien languages in my life.”

“Ah, but which one? This fucker here’s from Mannovai, bunch of language filcherers, if you ask me. And they have a terrible Keresh league.” Wik jabbed his friend with a long finger.

“You just had to go there, didn’t you? Now you got me upset! Ruka is the best Keresh team and you know they should have taken the base!” 

Shepard waved to them and continued on, past the asari and the greenhouse and on to the locker room, where she stopped in front of the neat rows of metal boxes stacked one on top of the other. Had someone shown her a picture of this room, without any other context, she would have asked to which Alliance team or unit the lockers belonged. 

By now, the information burst she sent on that small prison planet had reached Alliance systems and had been propagated across all human colonies. The people back home would think all aliens were monsters with imperialistic ambitions, like Poros said. The language she’d chosen to describe turians was abominable. And if the turians had attacked Shanxi, they would only confirm her message. With their superior weapons against humanity’s own, it could be a massacre. 

She chewed on that as she saw Mikos enter the room, his shadow passing by her and covering the wall on his way to his locker. He was a middle-age veteran of the resistance, an age few insurgents ever reached, if Poros was to be believed. He’d respected Shepard’s polite refusal to act as a diplomat towards her species when they talked the night before. 

“Mikos, do turians have some form of...identity directory in the Empire?” 

“Huh?” he turned around and was almost surprised to see her there. “Which directory is more the problem. Who are you looking for?”

“A friend who helped me. He was part of an organization called Sarkasec, I think? I didn’t spend too much time with him, but he saved my life.”

“Sarkasec? The translation doesn't ring a bell, sorry. There are some databases where you can search based on a number of categories: citizenship tier, planet, occupation, clan or family.” he stopped when he saw the despondent look on her face. “You don’t know any of those, do you?” 

“I’m facing the fact that the galaxy is huge. Cut me some slack.” she smiled and shook her head.

“Was he a floater or a faceless?” 

“A what?” 

“Did he have any markings on his face? Do you remember his face?” he tried again.

“Yes, I do. He had blue markings on parts of his face. Will that help?” 

“Start with the sigil directory, try to isolate the outer part of his facial design. That represents the planet he’s from. Then you work from there. It’s the best advice I can give. Good luck.” he said and dropped his pants, giving Shepard a view that stopped her in her tracks. “My apologies, I shocked you with my frankness.” 

“Yes, but it’s my own fault. I’m the odd specimen here. Thank you, Mikos.”

“Shepard? Take my advice: don’t look for him. You’re a person of interest for the Empire and the Empire doesn’t like losing sight of their charges. If this friend of yours has any official capacity, which I assume he does, he will report your attempt to contact him. That’s just what a turian citizen would do.” 

“You might be right. I’ll keep that in mind.” 

The War room was empty now, the terminal screens shut down and the seats arranged like an amphitheatre in front of the large projector screen. The table was solid wood, something she hadn’t seen since leaving Earth. For spacefaring species, wood had little use outside of ostentation, which made it all the more puzzling to see this display in a terrorist organisation’s hideout. Perhaps it was stolen from some high bureaucrat’s office, one of the many stolen things that populated this hangar. Everywhere she turned there was equipment lying around, from suits of armor to civilian clothing, from life support gear to technology so advanced, she had no name for it. The salarian mechanics spent most of their time in their shop, with a pile of what they called modifications, swapping bits and pieces from their weapons and suits of armor in a frantic bid to squeeze out the last percentage of efficiency. 

The armors - especially for turians - were so heavy that she could not lift a fully connected one on her own. Once they were on the wearer, though, miniature mass effect drives in the undersuit provided support like an exoskeleton, allowing the wearer to run farther, carry more and dispense medicine on the field. She understood the principles behind it, although it did not strip away the full extent of the magic.

With three more hours to go, she booted up the registry and started searching. Garrus had said he was from Palaven and that that was the bedrock of turian life. She swiped through hundreds of markings for clans, then generations, then families, until she was satisfied that the markings she found were the ones she remembered. 

“Vakarian. Garrus Vakarian, but which?” 

There were hundreds of entries for Garrus Vakarian, each of them separated by citizenship tier, class and occupation. She rested her head for a moment and closed her eyes to stop the burning sensation. The database was not proving itself as easy to navigate as she hoped. She searched for Heros Vakarian next, hoping that he was easier to find. His curriculum vitae was impressive, marking him as a public figure on Palaven.

“Chief...Hawk. Eagle? Must be a glitch in my translator.” she muttered and began searching for related news. “News...most decorated admiral, scandal on Palaven, Chief Hawk embroiled with Facinus…” 

And then it hit her. _“Chief Hawk resigning after scandal. One son dead and the other missing.”_

_“Garrus Vakarian, distinguished C-Sec officer and instructor, dead at the age of 27 in a terrorist attack on the Citadel.”_

_“Bellator Silva, adoptive son of C.H. Heros Antigonis Vakarian, missing after being discharged from hospital. Galaxy-wide search effort turning up no leads.”_

_“C.H. Heros Antigonis Vakarian, exonerated of Facinus charges as a result of investigation into son’s death.”_

_“Arvin Eritrus and Nelina Varihierax, dead under suspicious circumstances.”_

_“Scandal forces C-Sec to undergo audit by Citadel triumvirate mandated investigators.”_

She searched for Garrus Vakarian once more and found him “deceased”. His citizen number was decommissioned and his contact details scrubbed from the database. Bellator Silva’s exonet contacts were still there, however they were “pingback not received”. 

She opened one of the terminals and input the number. 

_The person you are trying to reach is not available. To leave a message, wait for the tone. Data and extranet fees may apply._

Shepard panicked when she saw herself projected on the screen, mouth agape and eyes red. She swallowed hard and weighed her options.

“Bellator Silva, I know this is unexpected for you, but I’m alive and well, safely away from the Empire’s prying eyes. Please don’t try to find me, it will just lead you on a wild goose...it will lead nowhere. I haven’t called you to gloat, though, I'm sorry if it seems like it. I’m sorry about Garrus and I’m sorry for all the pain I caused you, all of you. I understand why you attacked me, why you kept your distance and why Garrus didn’t. He was a good person by any galactic standard and I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I will carry this guilt to my grave. To be frank, I wish we could have met differently or not at all. We have so much in common, us humans and turians, you would not believe. Especially our stubbornness and resilience. Please come out of hiding. Please be alive. For your father and brother. Live well, Bellator Silva.”

She closed the link and wiped her tears away. Something had ended. Something began.

*

The spaceship groaned as the clamps released it, throwing up a cloud of dust as its landing pad touched the metal grates. It was a fighter which had been retrofitted into a yacht, good enough to transport at most four people. It was the most beautiful piece of machinery Shepard had ever seen. From the aerodynamics, to the hull metals, to the radiation and heat shielding and even the smallest joints, everything was an engineering miracle. 

The pilot was both amused and at least a bit flattered with her amazement at his unlicensed rust bucket. 

“Here we are, Shepard-miss. Illium as you’ve never seen it before. Stay close to me and I’ll show you why I’m banned from three districts here. On second thought, maybe that’s not such a good idea.” he said as he handed her a tissue.

She wiped her mouth and crumpled the paper bag where she’d last seen her breakfast.

“Thanks. Takes some getting used to, this hyperspeed. Faster than what we have, for sure.” Shepard smiled and got up, attaching the helmet to the armor suit. The extra space at the back of the head, where an asari’s head cartilage would be, was a strange feeling. 

The other pilot was waiting for them at another dock. From there on, it was only four jumps to Shanxi. Two days. In two days she would be free.

She stopped to gain her composure and clasped her hands on the rail overlooking the docks. Darkness had set over a sprawling city whose end Shepard could not see.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It’s nothing compared to Thessia, though. The blue aurora at night over the city is magical.” 

“Wish I could see it. There’s so much to learn here.” 

“We’re not going to be at war forever, there’s time. Oh, look, that’s Mini Saressia, what’s she doing on Illium?” the pilot moved closer to her. Their shoulders were almost touching as he gestured to a petite asari dressed resplendently in a metallic gold gown that covered everything and nothing at all. There were two hanar behind her carrying a billowing train and she was gesturing frantically towards them with wide motions, showing them the right way to cup and hold her dress for maximum effect. “Let’s go, I wanna take a closer look. They say she got military grade cyber implants in her legs for her 6 hour performances.” 

“They don’t already do that here? Hell, our performers are more decked out in military enhancements than our soldiers. Is our shuttle change that way?” Shepard turned to the pilot and smiled out of habit. He did not see anything through her opaque visor.

“A bit out of our way, but no use mentioning that to Poros now, is it? It’s just one more right turn.” the pilot replied sheepishly, pushing on his arms and away from the railing.

They merged with a steady stream of teenagers that were flooding the docks, following the throng to where the diminutive star shone. Shepard observed them carefully, minding her helmet so the clasps didn’t unbuckle or her head didn’t slip and wind up at the back of the helmet. Security was on high alert, brandishing rifles in the ready position. The asari armors were so lightweight and malleable that Shepard barely felt hers. The asari were glass cannons, a force to be reckoned with, if Shepard was right. 

Mini Saressia waved gently as she passed her fans, stopping for a picture there, an autograph here, beaming the kind of confidence that shook worlds. Shepard looked at her enthralled, as did the pilot. 

As her eyes drifted across the crowd, she caught an asari looking strangely at her. She turned to her turian companion and whispered something to his helmet. They both disappeared down a corridor. Shepard swallowed and forced herself to move closer to the pilot.

“Marius, we might have a problem. I think I saw a couple of mercs on our six staring at us.” 

“How did they look?” Marius scanned their surroundings and put his arm around Shepards’ shoulder, pushing them both deeper into the crowd and closer to an exit.

“An asari and a turian, both in armor, but only the turian had his helmet on. They went down the docks entrance, where we’re headed. Poros told me a turian and an asari tried to find me.” she whispered to him through her helmet, even though their voices were connected through a comm.

“Timon? We have a tail. Meet us at passport control. Do we have backup?” Marius brought his hand to his ear. “Four plainclothes should do it. Meet us there.” 

“No. I’m done hiding and running. They want me? They’ll have me dead or not at all.” she ground through her teeth.

“I can’t risk it, Shepard. You need to get back to your people, remember that.” 

“I’ve already done what I can and alerted them. My arrival in Shanxi will only help organise and translate. But I can definitely keep some assholes busy.”

“How do you plan on doing that? We’re unarmed.” 

“I have all the power I need in this little babe.” Shepard brought out the omnitool and flashed it for a second to Marius. “I’ve discovered some interesting presets here.” 

“Gmaiseo miloi? How did you get a military grade omni?” 

“From the hands of a dead turian, is how. Let’s go, right the way we’re supposed to.” 

She brushed past Marius and headed for the corridor, passing through the throng of fans. She slipped easily through that mass of bodies, almost leaving Marius, with his bulky turian body, behind by three meters. She moved like a feline, taking advantage of the cracks and crevices of the crowd. People muttered or snipped as Marius bulled through them, calling her asari name.

“Siaal, Siaal, stay back. Wait for me!” 

She found the crowd thinned towards the exits and she was exposed. She brought out her omnitool interface and pretended to be engrossed by it. She had learned the algorithms for the force blasts by heart, reciting how many joules or watts she could input for maximum force before the battery drained and had to be recharged by kinetic movement. She had narrowed it down to thirty seconds in between overloads, fifty for incineration. She was not happy with the count for the ability to shoot fireballs, but the bigger consumption of resources to manipulate atoms was understandable. 

She caught a glimpse of a mirror shining where it shouldn’t, high up near the banisters that led to the staff area and a bit above the air vents. She swerved and took cover behind a pillar, scanning her surroundings. Marius soon followed, bewildered by this change. The asari she’d seen before was standing just out of reach, near the entrance to the docking bay. 

“Marius, how good are turians against asari biotics?” she was panting a bit as he pointed to the thin asari with an arsenal strapped to her back.

“Turians might be good, but not good enough to take on Janora V’naeri single handed. That’s the council’s varren, She-Siaal. Nothing escapes alive if she is set on the task. We’re turning back, now! The mission is compromised and we’re as good as dead.” he almost whimpered as he grabbed Shepard by the crook of her elbow and squeezed.

“The Council? Then that means they know about me?”

“Way above my paygrade, Siaal. If they know and they sent the hit squad, that’s not good news. The Council will do anything to preserve the status quo and not shake the triumvirate they’ve worked hundreds of years to preserve. Why do you think the Empire can treat us like scum with no repercussions? I’ve done my time in reeducation, and I’m not going back there! The Council turns a blind eye to the atrocities the turians commit on themselves or others. Don’t trust them.” 

“Right. This just got more interesting. Do you have any idea how to get around to that bannister without being seen? The turian must be there, I saw a sniper rifle on his back and that is a good hiding perch if I’ve ever seen one. He has to know more.” 

“Timon? Change of plans. Send the plainclothes on a sweep and pickup mission, strict blood flow, with pulse, to the location I just sent. They’re going to find a kappa bird perched high and disturbing the air vents. We are coming on low tide.”


	25. Unconditional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus learns why asaris are the diplomatic arm of the triumvirate. Shepard and Marius attempt a courageous escape. Janora becomes chatty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S FINALLY HERE! I'm not telling you what, but it is! I originally wanted to split this chapter in two, but it would be cruel at this point. I hope you enjoy this extra feast!

Janora had been gone for three hours already, off to collect information from her contacts. Garrus was going stir crazy inside the spaceship, nursing a cup of kava and an asari diplomacy ebook on his lap, his feet carelessly draped over the console. The cup had been boiling hot when he’d poured it, but now it was solidifying in a muddy muck. He swished it around, stopping to sometimes lick the murky contents off his hands. 

“Fanyare and Shiena’s extensive research on first contact protocols outline the best methods to be employed when encountering new species. 

In respect to the Milky Way’s natural biodiversity and the extent of intelligent species, we will treat both the resemblant and non-resemblant species, as they each pose unique challenges in communication and the adaptations required to ensure peaceful and benevolent first contact…” 

Garrus blinked the boredom away. The asari were long winded about their treaties, hashing and rehashing the same idea multiple times, each new time adding another subtle layer to their interpretation that Garrus surely missed. Some asari researchers held over ten degrees in different branches, adding to them throughout their lifetime, while others hyper specialized in one direction in particular. Dania, for all her apparent immaturity, was already more than a hundred years old and had fought in remote starsystems he might have not even heard of. He resorted to using the search function a couple of times before he finally found the recommendations for first contact. 

“Only class 4 diplomats and lower should be assembled as part of the exploration expedition” 

Ok, failed.

“Communication should be established via distance communication first. Due dilligence must be made that we identify and communicate on wavelengths that the new species uses.” 

Ok, failed.

“The contact attempt is to be made only when we are certain that the body we are about to contact is the proper one, excluding all possibilities of aligning ourselves with factions at war.”

Ok, failed on both sides.

“The individual representatives chosen for contact should be carefully studied before engagement, to rule out self-serving interests.” 

Nothing in the protocol pertained to him or his situation. There was a reason after all for letting the asari do the diplomacy work. How could he have “gently reassured the natives of our peaceful intentions” with claws and jaws made to crush bones? Or “present a fair and unequivocal account of Council space history, making sure to balance out the role of species not currently seated at the Council” when he was an enforcer raised and bred in turian traditions not even he liked. 

The news on the turian exonet was disconcerting. There was no mention of Shanxi on the public boards or in admin spaces, but the deeper he used his C-Sec knowledge to search in the colonies’ interfeeds, the more he noticed mysterious deployments on a peace-keeping mission. He couldn’t use his C-sec bandwidth authorisation to view the more meaty parts, yet even with doing a simple tally the numbers were astounding, enough to level a cluster in a system. Before, they were running out of time. Now, they were running out of options as well. The turians could communicate with the humans if they wanted, but something told him that that was not the plan. The colony Primarchs were getting thirsty for war that would distract everyone from the separatist movements brewing under the surface, hungry for the forced unity that would bring against a common enemy.

He cleared the ebook on his omnitool, realising he would get no use out of it. The digital time piece on the dashboard got under his skin. When he looked at it, his translator implant scrambled it to a turian script, but when he looked away, his peripheral vision saw it for what it was, asari time. Janora was late. 

He sipped one more drink of kava and slammed the cup on the dashboard. 

“Spirits blast this!” he straightened up and opened the exonet on the Spectre’s terminal, keying in her stolen omnitool signature. Hundreds of files and dossiers popped up, all of them assigned to Janora and in different stages of completion. 

He waved them away and started searching for all the information the terminal had on turian intelligence ops. Something must have popped up that Janora missed. Anything to occupy his mind and his fingers. He found a query Janora had saved just two days ago and projected it on the screen. 

There, in all its glory, was this mess: dossiers on him, Bell, Liluva, the Executor. He knew these, so he went deeper. The next layer were Arvin, Nelina and...his dad? What in the name of titans walking in Palaven? 

He picked that thread and began unravelling it. Janora had been thorough, investigating Ostia, Palaven, the science facility hidden behind an asteroid, the families of everyone involved and then some more. He found pictures and videos of everyone involved, from the xenopsychologist who worked on Shepard down to...himself.

His curiosity itched, but he skirted over that file. He was about to open his dad’s file when the terminal blinked and he saw a message. 

_“Incoming message on Bellator Silva’s omnitool. Shall I project it on the screen?”_

He froze, unable to muster a response. His dead frater’s name hovered on the orange screen, a message from an unknown sender to a C-Sec omnitool which should have been untraceable. Did he have the right to intrude on his life and privacy like this? Bell had never kept secrets from him, but the modicum of privacy they kept from eachother was a hard line drawn in stone. He opened the message.

 _“Hey birdie, you gonna be on the Citadel anytime soon? I miss your style. And you’ve been missing out.”_

Attached was a picture of a gorgeous semi-nude turian, her already impossibly slim waist cinched in even more with the aid of a few strategically placed belts. A fighter pilot insignia was evident on the desk, behind the chair she was straddling.

He snickered and closed the message, a bitter sense of loss taking over his chest, nestling in his keel bone. 

_“Incoming message on Bellator Silva’s omnitool. Shall I project it on the screen?”_ the VI prompted again.

“No, that’s alright. Delete Bellator Silva, Liluva Varihierax, Herros Vakarian and Garrus Vakarian’s omnitool access from your memory. Wait, download Bellator Silva’s omnitool data to mine.”

 _“Access granted. Transfer complete. Deletion complete.”_ the VI said and stopped speaking. 

He drifted off for a moment, staring through the screen. 

***  
 _  
"Ugh, he's an orphan. Probably a rotten root if no one took him in by this age."_

_"Thanks for saving me from those vulgii. These shells are the only thing I have left from my parents."_

_"It wasn't right of them to pick on you! I would've done the same if they picked on my little sister."_

_"You...actually care?"_

Garrus felt a sting and blinked it away. 

_"Bell, I'm dead if my dad finds out I took his rifle and disassembled it."_

_"Don't worry, fidus, we'll make it work again. Here, see? You forgot to calibrate the collapsing mechanism."_

A smile. 

_"Wanna come to my home for the Passchelius holiday? Mom cooks a mean semolinia and she wanted to meet my new best friend."_

_"I've never had semolinia...are you that rich? I'm sorry, that came out wrong."_

Wonderment. 

_"Hey, my dad told me I could bring a friend to a clawball match. Wanna come with me?"_

_"Blue, your dad is prrrrobably hoping you'll finally take a girl out."_

His brother. 

_"I...want you to have this. There's no one in the world I care more about...well, apart from your sister, but I have to wait until she's out of boot camp."_

_"Are you serious? I thought these shells were from your parents? I...thank you, fidus. I'll cherish it. And I'll shoot you if you come anywhere near my sister."_

Love.

_“Why did you refuse my dad? You’re like my brother already, what’s the harm in getting adopted, Red?”_

_“Blue, I already have the best family, but getting inducted into the Vakarians? Hell, that would only hurt you, your mother and your sister’s standing. How many officials suddenly adopt a clanless unless they’re a bastard kid? I have to make a name for myself, by myself.”_

Bewilderment. 

_"My dad got me kicked out of Spectre training! I hate him!"_

_"Don't say that, Garrus! Never say that! You have no idea what it's like to grow up without parents!"_

_"I'm sorry, I didn't mean for it to come out like that. I swear, sometimes I think he'd rather have you as a son."_

Anger. 

_"Blue, I think I finally met the one. Servia and I...we're getting married! Would you, you know, be my witness to the life-joining?"_

_"I think I'll have to fight my dad for that honor. Congratulations!"_

Jealousy. 

_"It's...I...I can't, it hurts so much!"_

_"Bell, what's wrong? Why are you crying? Why is - where's Servia?"_

_"She left! Said she can't bear me being away so much on missions. Said she fell in love with one of her colleagues in the Lifebearer brigade."_

_"Shit. I'll be there in ten. I'll bring the ryncol"_

A storm brewing in a calm lake. 

_"Bell, this isn't doing you any good. Come on, we're going to apply to the C-sec academy together. It counts towards our service. It'll do you good to be off Palaven."_

_"You'll always do what your dad pushes you to do, won't you? It's not what you want."_

_"It's what's best for both of us, come on."_

_The only decision he’s ever made himself._

***

 _“Vakarian, do you read me?”_ Janora’s voice pierced through the veil of memories. _“I found a lead. Prep the ship, she’s not on Omega anymore.”_

“How did you find her?” 

_“Not yet sure I have. But it’s the best lead we have now. We’re heading to the Tasale system, charter the flight with the shortest route.”_

He felt strangely calm about her orders now. He’d put up a fight when she told him she’d be going alone to see her sources, but now he was grateful for the respite she’d given him. As the decontamination mist was wicking from her armour, Janora plopped herself in the pilot’s seat and turned on the igniters. 

“I’ve parked your shuttle.” 

“Thanks.” he said and focused on the readings the vidscreen was giving him. Aft thrusters, starboard weight, wing calibration. Aft thrusters, starboard weight, wing calibration. Focus. Don’t think too much. 

“Janora, can I ask you something?”

“No.” her face was straight, humorless. “But you will, anyway.” 

“Who are you looking for?” 

“My sister. Lost her twenty years ago to slavers. My turn. Why did you refuse to testify against Liluva Varihierax?”

“She was more than a sister to me. I couldn’t. Even after she almost killed us. Why did you save me back there?”

“Easy. You know the human. She’ll talk to you.” 

“But how did you know it was me?” 

“Buckle up, we’re entering the first mass relay. I had a hunch it was you. Badly painted over C-sec uniform, stole Bellator Silva’s ID, was interesting enough to catch Aria’s attention. Fits. What do you want to do with the human once you have her?” 

He hadn’t thought that far and now he found he couldn’t formulate a plan, an idea, a direction.

“Help her and end the conflict. Take her to the Citadel, hopefully the Council will listen. What do you want to do?” 

“Me? Nothing. Tevos is paying me for the service. Your reasons. Did you think they were naive?” she frowned and looked away, down into her terminal. “That you might never find her?” 

“I’ve been terrified of that and much worse ever since I made the first step. But what’s the use in dwelling on my reasons or my naivete? I either do this right or… or not at all” he focused on Janora’s face, suddenly aware. “When did you lose her?” 

“Twenty years ago. She was a kid. Parents never much in the picture. She was studying geology on a dextro planet. Batarians raided the whole science facility. Left a couple of corpses witness, but otherwise clean.” 

“I’m sorry. I barely learned what it means to lose someone. How did you...how do you cope with her missing? I...I miss my friends so much.” he stopped typing and clenched his fists, his talons digging into his exposed palm flesh.

“I don’t. If I hear she died, I will follow soon.” 

As they docked on Illium, Garrus gawked at the tall spires and business buildings of Nos Astra, amazed at their fragility. The delicate designs appeared to descend from the skies like stalactites, swooping in and stabbing themselves in the ground. The bigger government buildings had a sturdier base, so that they were the stalagmites to the business buildings, together forming a balanced whole. Nothing was left to chance, from the glass panes that offered a stunning view of the business district and down to the carefully manicured flora that sometimes snaked its way up to the fourth or fifth flight. This all was offset by the frenzy of people in transit on the dock. Janora’s Spectre status earned them a priority docking, way ahead of other shuttles and transports. 

They disembarked with little ceremony and regrouped at the security checks, once they both had been checked for IDs. The asari who did his check didn’t seem interested in him, ushering him on with barely a glance. So close to the Terminus, your crimes were either insignificant or not even crimes. 

“My source says some small time smuggler hid her on his ship headed to Nos Astra. Destination after that is unknown. We have to catch her here. There are two hundred transports from Omega to Illium. I’ve narrowed it down to thirty, all in non-prio Dock 55 and 33. We should split now.” 

As they stepped out into the terminal, they were hit by a crowd of people, all huddled together behind a flimsy security cordon. There were waves of people there, all clamoring for a look at something happening on the tarmac, almost blocking the exits. Airport security was barely able to contain them. Some of them were holding placards with an asari’s face, while others had crudely drawn signs with one Mini Saressia’s name. 

“Just my luck. The one time I see her, I’m on a mission.” 

“Who is she? I saw her pic on a vidzine, but I’ve never heard of her much before.” 

“She’s huge in asari space, the Reigning Queen of outside colonies pop. Just now making a name in Citadel space, mostly batarians and salarians first. Her music is pretty eclectic.” Janora smiled and drew a bit closer to him, so she could better see through the throng. “It will be harder to find our target now. Good choice by the smugglers, few would dare smuggle goods and people when security is this tight.” 

“So we’re potentially looking for someone in disguise, with an asari identity. I asked the VI to go through the list of passengers, but so far no flags. Everyone checks out.” Garrus craned his neck to see better. His helmet screen projected searching algorithms, working overtime to identify faces. He switched it off temporarily, to avoid the headache. “Woah, look at that asari and the turian, they stopped dead in their tracks. Poor sod, his wife is going to drag him to the concert, I guarantee it.” he chuckled to Janora, who looked slightly miffed with him. 

“No more standing around, let’s go.” she said brusquely and tugged on his sleeve.

“Wait. I have a better idea. I have a good view of the exits from that service flight. VI tells me it’s seldom used, I can perch there.” 

“Don’t abuse the right to my VI, Vakarian. She’s sensitive. I’ll start checking the flight manifests from Omega. Might catch a pyjak or two if they forgot to account for weight.” 

“Stay in touch.” he said and turned his back to her. 

The service flight was surely designed to conceal a sniper, but, since 2050, Nos Astra had modernised their external airport to automate all defenses. At any sign of threat kinetic walls would shoot up, separating potential assailants from the victims, while automated turrets and mechanised robots would draw their guns and target all hostiles. Now all previous military police perches and offices had become storage for mechs, while the policemen themselves were handling all passenger processing. 

He set up and waited, surveying the crowds. He once more found the turian and asari couple, apparently in the middle of a quarrel. They were moving through the crowd, she nimbly, he like a nathak through a flower field. He couldn’t hear what they were saying. 

The young turian in the pilot suit grabbed the asari and shook her, enough to rattle her helmet. She pushed him away, not too forcibly. 

“The helmet shouldn’t have bounced that way.” he whispered to himself and trained the sniper sights on them, to see better. Marius Thermidor, former Empire pilot, turned small time smuggler after being dishonorably discharged. Two years in re-education, after which he fled Citadel space. The other passenger must be Siaal Daara. No military records apart from a stint in a bar near a batarian military colony. The pilot seemed very distressed, talking to someone else on the phone while the asari was looking in her omnitool. He could see her screen and it appeared she was calibrating it for a burst of incinerate. For her to have a military omni was already a stretch, but there was something off about the interface, something he couldn’t quite…

“It’s not translated, that’s turian script. What on Palaven would…” he gasped and brought his hand to his helmet radio. “Janora, are you copying?” 

Static came in his ears, a thin, broken warble. 

_“-karian...nection...ove...tracking.”_ he heard in between bursts of static.

“Janora, Janora? Track the asari and turian!” 

_“-hing position...nd by.”_

He started fiddling with the closed comm, changing channels and trying to hail Janora. She must have either gotten out of range, or too close to the spaceships. 

“Spirits blast this, how do you fuck up a comm system in a dense metropolitan area, Janora? How!?” he snarled and turned the sound off. He looked in his crosshairs again and the couple was gone.

Garrus heard footsteps behind the service door and drew his pistol, abandoning all hope of being able to collapse the mechanism on his rifle and pack it up. There were no easy explanations for what he was doing there with an extended sniper rifle pointed at a crowd. 

“Standard breach.” a muffled salarian voice came through the door, just barely. He stepped away and to the side, his index finger not yet on the trigger. 

They burst forth from the door, one, two, three. Garrus steadied his breathing, almost melding into the wall. The door obscured him from view for a few seconds. The salarian made a disgruntled noise, then Garrus pounced. With a divekick, he destabilised the turian and sent him sprawling over the batarian, punching the latter in the ribs as he went down. Garrus pivoted, turning a half-pirouette and smashing his pistol into the batarian’s temple. The salarian was quick on the uptake, evading Garrus’ swipe and shooting a shotgun slug at him. Garrus’ shield whined and fizzled out, staggering him for a second. The salarian was pumping the handgrip with ease of practice, almost having reloaded the barrel. Garrus sidestepped and dove right for the salarian, hesitant to pull the trigger. There was yelling downstairs and he could see over the bannister the kinetic walls rising as an orange sea to protect civilians. He got close enough to slap the shotgun away from the salarian and knock him out.

The other two were getting up, pistols at the ready. He shot one of them in the chest and evaded the other’s bullet. Garrus dashed for cover behind a newly risen kinetic barrier. His visor came to the rescue, calibrating a disabling shot. On the exhale, he sprung up from cover and released the bullet, watching it shatter the turian’s pelvis and engulfing him in a web of electric current. Overhead the alarms system kicked into full speed. Another evacuation, another mass panic, another failed scope out. He was tired of it, tired of a futile chase across the galaxy with nothing to show for it but dead friends, a failed career and soon a family that would disown him, if he survived. 

He looked at the three mercs below him and cocked his pistol. One shot rang out in the silence, then two. Garrus didn’t flinch. He sat down to wait for the salarian to wake up. It didn’t take long before Garrus had his foot on the salarian’s chest as he coughed for air.

“Who sent you?” 

“Go to hell, cloaca.” the salarian wheezed out. 

“This is me asking nicely, one more time.” he growled as he pointed the gun to the salarian’s squirming feet. Without hesitation, he shot through the boot. 

The salarian whimpered, but didn’t scream. 

“I don’t know who sent us. I don’t know who you are. We get our orders down the line.” 

“Where is Shepard?” he yelled, rage filling his eyes blue. “Where is the human?”

“Even if I knew what that was I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Then you’re no use to me.” he spat and shot the salarian. 

Garrus turned and bolted through the door, hands on his headpiece trying to hail Janora again. It took him a while to realise he had switched too many channels, before he reverted to the right one.

 _“Vakarian, where have you been?”_ Janora’s flatline voice seemed almost worried.

“We have pursuers. I neutralised three of them, unknown how many more there are. Progress?” 

_“Pinned down by crowds. Panic everywhere. Mechs heading your way. Lost sight of the targets.”_ she panted in the microphone.

“Help me keep the mechs busy, we have time now. They’re not flying anywhere.” he moved his arm away, just in time to see a silhouette round the corner from a crouching position. Without thinking, he shot towards it, netting him a shield-eating hit. The silhouette crouched back and, to his surprise, rolled towards him and released an overload, hitting his shields at maximum impact and almost crunching his keelbone. 

Spirits, he had to be careful. He still didn’t feel any pain. Garrus leapt for the cover of the stairwell, but the female in the asari armor was relentless, jumping from her cover to the elevator shaft, waiting for him to resurface. Why didn’t she shoot?

“Who are you?” he yelled, but was silenced by another burst of electricity, this one hitting him full force. Bile collected in his throat and he found he couldn’t speak up, though nothing really hurt. He fell to the ground, barely steadying himself with a desperate grab of the rail. 

The woman was saying something, but the roaring in his ears would not subside enough for him to hear. 

She keyed her omnitool for one last hit, directing her hand surely at him, palm open. If he read it right, her next hit would be an incineration projectile that would wipe him off the face of the galaxy. 

No. This was not his last stand. 

He charged at her, shooting once, twice, shots that would barely graze the shield, enough to fizzle it out, but not enough to bite. His head swam and his vision was limited to a pinpoint. Her.

Time froze. He couldn’t see behind her visor, but by the way she was shaking her right hand, he realised the omnitool was out of charges. She took one look at him and ran towards him, knocking him down on his ass with a swing of her fist. Of all the things he expected, he did not foresee this tactic. 

By the time he got up she had a head start of a few meters. She knocked down some crates and skidded on her knees, picking up the gun from the dead batarian. Garrus had almost vaulted over the crates, but the bullets whizzing past him made him lose his grip and tumble down. He was faster than her, gaining steadily. 

He tried finding his voice again, to no avail. 

_“Vakarian, crowd directed to evac. Where are you? Vakarian, come in.”_

He coughed in the receiver, the best effort he could do. 

“Good.” he half whispered, half croaked. “Can’t talk.” 

The woman jumped over the bannister, grabbing the rail on her way down. She landed on her feet in a small, sectioned-off shrubbery, then rolled away. He jumped after her and tumbled in the bush, following her every step. The maze of orange shields distracted him for a second, allowing her to enter a corridor whose entrance he couldn’t see.

They were running almost parallel now. She shot towards him once, only to see the kinetic barrier eat her round and reform seamlessly. 

Whenever the corridors looked like they intersected, she swerved towards a different one, keeping him on the chase. Her stamina was better than his, she ran and dashed and skidded with ease. The sharp turns and corners started fatiguing him, putting him more and more behind. She turned towards a fountain and knocked down two asari saplings in potted plants.

He saw an opening, a different corridor he could take so he could cut her off. Garrus pivoted on his heels and booked it. His lungs were hot and his throat raw as he focused on the opening. 

Right at the bend, his eyes widened as he found himself falling head first towards the floor. He changed course mid-air and landed on his side with a dull thud of his shoulder and carapace. The female was on him, out of nowhere, turning him, straddling him and punching him in the head with uncoordinated fury. Her gun was holstered. There was an unsated thirst in her as she hit him. She had no experience in hand to hand combat with turians, by the way she avoided hitting his more exposed neck and cowl.

He thrust his hand forward and aimed it at her chest, to overturn her balance. She anticipated that and swiped at his hand, pushing it aside with remarkable force. 

_“Thank you for participating in this simulated evacuation protocol. All flights will resume shortly.” an asari voice sing-songed from the tinny speakers in the deserted docks._

There was someone else coming towards them now. Garrus pushed on his heels and jerked his hips, sending her tumbling to the side and pouncing on her. He reached for his pistol, but she was rabid, kicking him and swinging her arm so it connected to his neck. He lost his balance and fell to the side, seeing her scramble on all fours and use her arms to steady a kick to his keel bone that knocked him on his back. She was reaching for her pistol when he saw Janora cock her shotgun and aim it at the asari’s exposed back. 

Garrus grabbed her and pulled her towards his chest, flipping them both so his back was to Janora. A shot rang out and he couldn’t see where it had gone. 

Then a biotic projectile flew past them and a body flopped to the floor shortly afterwards.

“Marius, noooo!” the woman yelled and clawed at him, angling to escape.

Shivers went down his spine at the sound of that voice, at the sound of consonants tumbling down from the roof of her mouth, translated to turian with a minute pause. He let go of her in a moment of hesitation, something she did not expect either. 

She was quick on her feet, scrambling and running to Marius’ inert body. She draped herself almost protectively over him, on her knees. A string of pain stirred in him.

Janora stood mere meters away from them, ready to unleash another biotic projectile. Garrus limped to his feet and waved to Janora.

“Stand down, it’s her.” he croaked in his mic and turned to Shepard, who was now pointing her gun to Janora. Janora’s blue aura began subsiding slowly, but she kept the mnemonic stance up.

Slowly, carefully, he unhooked the metal clasps that secured his helmet and grabbed it with both hands. The cool air from the terminal’s air conditioning hit him and he felt alive.

“Shepard. It’s me.” he managed to whisper. “Stop, please.” 

A coughing fit overtook him and he swallowed a hard lump. Her hand shook as she lowered the gun and let it fall to the ground. With clumsy fingers she pulled her helmet away to reveal a gaunt face. It hurt him to see her once shiny hair so dull and matted, her eyes more weary and her skin so much paler. His breath hitched. Her presence commanded his entire attention. Shepard picked the gun up, uncertain what to do with it. 

“Did...did you come here to capture me?” her voice was trembling, exhausted.

Garrus’ eyes shifted to Janora, who had relaxed her posture. 

“No, we came to help you get back to your kind. Take you to a council audience on the Citadel so you can explain. They can help you.” Janora collapsed her weapon and looked back at Garrus. Her square jaw had unclenched.

“Gamiseo miloi, that hurt.” Marius spat and turned to his side, curling up in a ball.

“I only pulled you, no internal damage. A bit of nausea expected.” 

“Garrus, is - is that really you?” Shepard got up and opened her mouth wide, exposing her teeth. 

“I promised, soldier. With your permission.” he forced a smile and let his helmet drop.

She looked at him for a heartbeat, analysing his face, his markings, then ran towards him with open arms. He was hesitant for a second, then opened his arms to catch her. He was afraid he’d crush her as he lifted her up and swung her around before gently laying her down again. He’d seen that once in an old movie, between quarians. She latched on to his shoulders, her warmth spreading from his keelbone towards his whole body. She fit perfectly in the empty space of his body. 

“You’re so thin.” he managed to speak and let his chin fall on her head. “Are you ok?”

“Look who’s talking, Jaws. Skin and bones you are.” 

She let go of him and fixed his eyes with her gaze. Her face filled his vision, to the exclusion of everything else around them.

“I...I thought you died. You...I saw the notice on the extranet. Is it really you?” she took his hand in hers and squeezed. It seemed like she needed to touch him at all times. 

“Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” he gestured to the sea of orange shields around them with a wave of his free hand.

Janora came closer to them, cautiously approaching. She rocked on her heels for a second, then cleared her voice.

“Shepard. Vakarian. We need to move. Not much time available. Nos Astra governor is not happy.” 

“Shepard, don’t listen to her! She’s the Council’s varren. If they really wanted to see you, they wouldn’t send their assassin to do their bidding.” Marius interrupted them, keeping his distance.

Shepard let go of Garrus’ hand and turned towards Marius.

“You’re wrong, we came here to rescue Shepard. I’m Ga…” Garrus had extended his arm in salute, but dropped it as soon as he was interrupted.

“I know who you are, labisian. Shepard, can’t you see? A Spectre and the son of the Chief Hawk to the turian Empire, coincidentally working together to take you away to fight against the Empire? I’m willing to wager he’s the reason you’re in this mess in the first place. Do you know who signed your paperwork to become a live testing specimen? By whose authority you were sold into slavery? His patri! Run, Shepard!” he gestured towards the exit and Shepard shot Garrus a glance. 

“My father would never do this.” Garrus replied, ignoring the insult. 

“We don’t have time for this and you would not understand. Step aside.” Janora grunted and moved her arm towards her pistol.

“Stop!” Garrus forced his voice and leapt towards Marius, shielding him with his body. “No more shooting!” he turned to Shepard and hoped his face was expressive enough for her to trust him. “Shepard, I...don’t know whether what he said is true. I can’t guarantee anything and if I knew you were safe with him, I’d let you go. If he’s a separatist, it’s true that the Empire considers them terrorists and hunts them down. It might be true that my patri did that, but it’s just as true that I caused this mess by being the first person you spoke to. But Janora…” he had to pause to cough “she’s here because of me. I didn’t think the Primarch or the Empire would see you for what you are, and I called on the only authority I thought would...the asari diplomats. They sent her.” 

“Eloquent, Vakarian.” Janora said. “Now can we move this to the ship? Sounds like quite the talk is needed.” 

“Shepard, do you trust him even after you saw him murder innocent people?” Marius asked, not ready to drop the subject.

“I didn’t know they were with you. They attacked before I could speak.” 

“Janora is right, we can’t stay here all day and debate. If you’re really here to help, you won’t mind talking in Marius’ ship. He needs medical attention.” Shepard said.

She supported Marius as they limped along to his ship. Garrus tried offering his help. Marius refused it outright with a hateful look. He ran a diagnostics check on himself, a crude tool Janora had given him with special Spectre permission. Some bruising on his face and body, elevated heart rate, stress hormones high, nothing life threatening. It was a miracle Shepard hadn’t broken her arms swinging at him, let alone that she was able to support a fully grown turian’s weight. He let them go on ahead and stayed back, more to catch Marius if he fell than anything else. He wanted to barrage Shepard with questions and volley her with his own story, but it was not right to intrude on her like that. Despite her openness and what Garrus thought was happiness to see him, she was a mystery still to him.

Janora walked in front of them and disabled the shields as she went, working silently and grimly. She moved from objective to objective without a word said or a facial muscle moved. 

“Does it hurt badly?” Shepard talked to Marius, encouraging him to take another step, then another.

“No. Yes. Spirits, I’ll be grounded for six months if it’s broken. Do you really trust him, Shepard?” he tried whispering, although he knew Garrus could hear.

“I’d rather not talk about that now. I need to speak to…” 

“Yeah, probably a good idea.” Marius cut her off and cast a suspicious look behind and in front of him.

“If you can put weight on it, it’s likely just a sprain.” 

“A sprain can sometimes be worse for a turian than an outright break. I don’t want them on board, especially him.” 

“Then we’ll talk outside. What happens if I decide to go with them?” 

Garrus walked past them at a distance and went to speak to Janora. He didn’t want to eavesdrop anymore.

“Your mercy might cost us the mission.” Janora said in lieu of greeting. 

“She has to choose on her own. She’s been through enough forced transfers. Let me talk to her.” 

“Voice is getting better. I can handle the separatist while you talk. Promise to be nice.” she grunted.

“Did you talk to Tevos?”

“I rarely talk to her, she does most of it.” 

“The grim Spectre can joke!” Garrus replied. “I was beginning to think I’d have to enroll so I could teach you humor.” 

“Careful, Vakarian, don't want to overuse your funny bone. You are a turian after all.” she disabled the last wall and returned her omnitool in its sheath. “You convince the human, I’ll deal with the separatist and the forty five missed calls after my last update. Goddess, worse than my scheduling VI.” 

They had reached the end of the dock and Shepard helped settle Marius on a low cargo crate. There was a heavy silence between them, each expecting the other to speak. Janora did not seem to be on the same wavelength. 

“Shepard, name is Janora V’naeri, Council Spectre specialised in covert ops and high risk missions. I’m here to help you should you want to reach the Citadel and petition the Council for help. Pleased to finally meet you.” 

Shepard brought her hand forward and Janora looked at it for a moment, before extending her own and clasping Shepards’.

“Good to meet you, Janora. I have many questions, I assume you do, too.” 

“Questions and answers, indeed. You and Vakarian should talk. I have a diagnostics suite that will help Marius, but it’s sensitive to interference.” 

Marius gave Shepard one last look, without uttering a word. Garrus and her walked the docks for a silent minute, until Shepard grabbed a railing and looked out at all of the ships parked on the tarmac. 

“This world is so beautiful. I haven’t even seen any of it and already I can tell I’ll miss it.” she offered, awkwardly and noncommittal.

“I wish it had been kinder to you. How are you holding up?” he poked gently. Her hollow cheeks were more evident in the midsummer glare, sharpening her features to an almost turian profile.

“I don’t know how to answer that question other than saying I’m still alive. So far, that’s been good enough.” she looked down and away. 

He reached for his glove and took it off. His hand came to rest on top of hers and she turned her hand over to intertwine her five digits around his three. The mismatch in size was hilarious, prompting them both to laugh.

“You pack a hell of a punch for that tiny frame, you know? If you were my size it would even hurt.” he chortled. 

“You barely felt any of that! I’m exhausted just from wailing on you.” Shepard said and made a show of rubbing her lower back. 

Shepard got quiet after that, settling in slightly anxious. Here was the clench.

“If I go with Marius I will reach the human colony in two days and can help organise the resistance. If I go with you, you will hopefully take me to see the Council triumvirate and they will maybe listen to me and they will maybe stop the turians. Or they will maybe use me as a test subject or worse this time.” 

He pondered his next words carefully.

“I’ve been thinking about your Spartan people a lot lately. About their logical, methodical approach. The logical thing for me to do was step away from you and let my superiors handle it. After all, that’s why they’re my betters. I was certainly not equipped to deal with a new species. If I did that, my best friends would still be alive and with me, my father wouldn’t be facing impeachment and I wouldn’t be staring down the barrel of disownment, suicide or a forced labor camp when I return to the Citadel. Something told me that wasn’t the right path to take, not after what we shared in Ostia. So I took my fate in hand and I gambled for the ultimate outcome.” 

“What is that?” she asked.

“Self-determination. I am my own turian now. I want to give your people the same benefit. If you go back to Shanxi, the resistance will be bolstered with your knowledge, but turians are relentless. Our ships could level entire cities from orbit - how are you going to fight that? You might just end up as a casualty and your species will be introduced to the galaxy as a turian client race. But if you get the asari and salarians on your side, the turians will have to stand down and you will get a chance to carve out your place in this corner of the Universe. It’s up to you to choose.” 

She moved her eyes away from his for a second too long. 

“It’s such a huge responsibility. I don’t know...” she said and his heart dropped into his stomach. “...where should I put up my backpack?”

Garrus had to blink and call his mandibles back to his face by force of will. 

“Is that your surprised or your smiling face?” she quipped and nudged him with her shoulder. 

“You’re new to this Galaxy, so I have to cut you some slack for that display of space racism.” he laughed. “What do you need to be comfortable? It would be about a two days jump at normal FTL speed and then another one until we can get to the Citadel through the relay.” 

“Companionship and maybe a little bit of solitude. But first, give me some time to sort through the mess I’m in right now.” 

“Are they holding you ransom?” Garrus looked back, towards Janora and Marius, who seemed to be holding a polite, but strained conversation.

“No, nothing of the sort. His contact arranged my transfer to Illium and then back to Shanxi, before...before you arrived in the picture. Garrus?” 

“Hmm, yes?”

“Apologise to Marius for those three, please. He needs to hear that.” 

“I will.” 

By the time he had to let Shepard go back inside with Marius, Garrus realised he wanted to claw his way into the ship and make sure Shepard was always within his field of view.

“Stop being such a louza hen. She’ll be fine.” Janora yawned and settled her elbow on a crate. “Goddess, stim downs are so painful.” 

“Imagine it was your sister in there, would you be as relaxed?” 

“That’s not your blood in there, Vakarian. Far from it. Don’t make the mistake of assuming she’s happy to see you. After all she’s been through? I’d be welcoming to a braindead krogan that survives on secondary motor function if he drooled on me.”


End file.
